Honey, I'm Home
Title: Honey, I'm Home
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Pansy
Word count: 468
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: It's unbeta'd. Apologies all around. And there's swearing. Filthy swearing. And angry sex... Gosh, and it's written in the present tense. WHY DO I DO THAT?!
Author's Notes: This was an answer to a prompt for the hp_humpdrabbles community's Humpfest 2011.
Pansy walks in the door to find Ron clad only in a pair of boxers, one hand absently tucked in the waistband, lazing around and listening to Quidditch on the wireless.
She smooths a hand down her dress. It doesn't have any wrinkles, and she knows this, but the gesture keeps her from screeching at him. Carefully placing her bag on the table next to the door, she crosses to him, places a hand on her hip as she purses her lips.
"Have you done anything today? Have you even moved from the sofa since I left?"
"It's Saturday," was the darkly mumbled response, delivered complete with a dirty look.
"You're so fucking lazy." She slips off her shoes, sits next to him and tucks her feet beneath her. She sniffs gingerly. "God, you haven't even showered."
"Showered yesterday."
Leaning in, she said, "And you're listening to the Cannons."
"Fuck off, Parkinson," he said, yanking her starched blouse out of the waistband of her skirt. "Don't start on the Cannons."
"It's one of the many failings you have." She pushes him back on the sofa and straddles him, giving a soft sigh of pleasure when his cock fits in the cleft of her centre. "You're a layabout, you support a shite Quidditch team, you've awful freckles all over." She leans down and punctuates the statement by kissing a freckle on his left pectoral. "Ghastly."
He unfastens a button on her blouse, and then another, Cupping her breasts when the garment lies open. “You're a loudmouth, overbearing, nagging harpy."
She reaches in between them and frees his cock from the confines of his boxers. "Your hair is orange."
"You're a snob," he says, groaning as she slides onto his length. "You're a snob without a heart."
She rocks against him, a flush creeping up into her chest and face. "You're poor. And you've no manners. And you're boring. Your conversation is,” she gasps, “shite."
He tweaks a nipple, and she cries out in pleasure. "You're wound so tight, it's a wonder my dick can even fit."
She can't speak quite at the moment, because her walls clench around him and she's giving an uncharacteristic cry of pleasure.
She sighs, lying on his chest. "You can't dress. Your clothes are awful."
He chuckles. "I'm not wearing any clothes."
"These underwear are awful, then."
"He drops a kiss on the top of her dark head. "You picked them out."
Pansy sighs again and smiles. "Must be the way you're wearing them."
Ron grins and rubs a hand absently across the smooth skin of her back, glad that she’d come home early. "Must be."
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Pansy
Word count: 468
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: It's unbeta'd. Apologies all around. And there's swearing. Filthy swearing. And angry sex... Gosh, and it's written in the present tense. WHY DO I DO THAT?!
Author's Notes: This was an answer to a prompt for the hp_humpdrabbles community's Humpfest 2011.
Pansy walks in the door to find Ron clad only in a pair of boxers, one hand absently tucked in the waistband, lazing around and listening to Quidditch on the wireless.
She smooths a hand down her dress. It doesn't have any wrinkles, and she knows this, but the gesture keeps her from screeching at him. Carefully placing her bag on the table next to the door, she crosses to him, places a hand on her hip as she purses her lips.
"Have you done anything today? Have you even moved from the sofa since I left?"
"It's Saturday," was the darkly mumbled response, delivered complete with a dirty look.
"You're so fucking lazy." She slips off her shoes, sits next to him and tucks her feet beneath her. She sniffs gingerly. "God, you haven't even showered."
"Showered yesterday."
Leaning in, she said, "And you're listening to the Cannons."
"Fuck off, Parkinson," he said, yanking her starched blouse out of the waistband of her skirt. "Don't start on the Cannons."
"It's one of the many failings you have." She pushes him back on the sofa and straddles him, giving a soft sigh of pleasure when his cock fits in the cleft of her centre. "You're a layabout, you support a shite Quidditch team, you've awful freckles all over." She leans down and punctuates the statement by kissing a freckle on his left pectoral. "Ghastly."
He unfastens a button on her blouse, and then another, Cupping her breasts when the garment lies open. “You're a loudmouth, overbearing, nagging harpy."
She reaches in between them and frees his cock from the confines of his boxers. "Your hair is orange."
"You're a snob," he says, groaning as she slides onto his length. "You're a snob without a heart."
She rocks against him, a flush creeping up into her chest and face. "You're poor. And you've no manners. And you're boring. Your conversation is,” she gasps, “shite."
He tweaks a nipple, and she cries out in pleasure. "You're wound so tight, it's a wonder my dick can even fit."
She can't speak quite at the moment, because her walls clench around him and she's giving an uncharacteristic cry of pleasure.
She sighs, lying on his chest. "You can't dress. Your clothes are awful."
He chuckles. "I'm not wearing any clothes."
"These underwear are awful, then."
"He drops a kiss on the top of her dark head. "You picked them out."
Pansy sighs again and smiles. "Must be the way you're wearing them."
Ron grins and rubs a hand absently across the smooth skin of her back, glad that she’d come home early. "Must be."