FIC: The Modern Witch's Guide to Dragon Wrangling (Charlie Weasley/Pansy Parkinson)
Title: The Modern Witch's Guide to Dragon Wrangling
Author: slumber
Characters: Charlie Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Prompt number: 115
Word Count: ~2,400
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit content
Summary: Charlie finds himself with his hands full when Pansy Parkinson is sent to the dragon reserve to research potential potions ingredients -- in more ways than one.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money off it!
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to C, my lovely beta-- any mistakes are mine due to post-beta meddling. ragdoll, this was a fantastic prompt and I greatly enjoyed writing it!
The Modern Witch's Guide to Dragon Wrangling
She kissed as she fought -- fierce and passionate, with a calculated skill that went straight to his groin. Her lips were full and swollen as he sucked on them, her mouth a heat he licked into, her tongue deft as it rubbed against him, coaxing a low sound from the back of his throat that he hadn't even been aware he could make. She was small, pressed against him as she was, but it was his back to the wall of the flimsy tent and his knees that hit the back of his cot as she moved them both toward it.
Before he could even move she was already straddling him, a mess of dark curls falling over her heart-shaped face, one lock tickling the tip of her defiant nose.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you talked too much?" she finally asked, smirking when instead of an answer she drew out a low, keening moan from him instead, brought about by the hand she'd boldly placed against his crotch and used to stroke him to helplessness.
"That is hardly what I'd call fair tactic," Charlie managed to gasp, rolling his hips towards her touch, yearning for more even as she held back, hand light on his length lest he forget what she could do.
"You expected me to play fair?" she asked him, rolling her hips against his still fully clothed trousers. He'd never been happier she'd insisted on wearing the lengthy skirt she did; he could feel her heat through the thin fabric of her knickers, could feel her as she rubbed against him. "It's a pity you're as annoying as you are easy on the eyes."
"Was that a compliment, Parkinson?" He grinned, moving his hands up to rest on her waist, where she immediately slapped them away, eyebrow raised and the ghost of a smirk on her full, red lips.
"Don't even think about it."
Charlie had taken one look at her and gave her three hours, tops.
It was a fair assessment. She had porcelain white skin that would crack and blister easily in the unforgiving heat of the Romanian summer. Her nails were long and manicured to perfection, unsuited to labour harder than raising an idle wand to cast a charm. Her robes were too tight around the shoulders-- the better to show off adequate tits but not to move fully, a dangerous mistake in a dragon reserve-- and too long where it reached her feet. No way the fancy material stayed clean after they crossed the muddy grounds to reach camp. He bet she was wearing heels too; he wouldn't put it past birds like her.
It looked like she knew it too. Her upper lip hadn't de-curled from the faint sneer she wore since he came in, and every so often she took a delicate sniff and pursed her lips, like she was trying not to gag. The last thing they worried about was the stench. They were around it often enough that they'd grown accustomed to it.
A princess like her, though? Charlie would eat dragon dung if she lasted more than a day not smelling like roses and lavender.
"Pleasure to meet you," is what he said though, reaching out to shake her hand once they were introduced. He'd completely missed the introduction, tended to do that whenever Grabovski started talking. He was sure he knew why he was there, anyway. Show the Slug and Jiggers associate around, lead her to camp, make sure the dragons didn't eat her. Simple enough.
Her gaze flickered to his outstretched hand, grimy with dirt and hot with sweat from being out in the field all morning, and ignored it. "I'm sure," she murmured. "Weasley, was it?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, biting his tongue in case he said more. He withdrew his hand, deciding to let the reserve do the dirty work. With one nod to Grabovski, he held out the tent flap to lead her out. "Let me show you to camp."
He arched up, the move sudden as he intended, and in the moment of her caught in surprise he flipped her to her back, the tip of his wand following the length of her body, a hot charm cutting the fabric that held her clothing together.
"Fancy spell," she murmured, something akin to amusement in her gaze while he pushed the material that made up her dress away.
"Trick we learned for treating burns," Charlie explained, sitting up so he could discard his own clothes. "Useful in a pinch, when the fabric's burnt into skin."
"That is both riveting and sexy," she said with a wrinkle of her nose. "I hope you realise you'll be paying for that; it was an original Zapata."
"Riveting and sexy," Charlie echoed, smirking at her as he sat between her legs, hands circling her ankles before he tugged her forward. She sat up just as he leaned closer, his hands around her waist, her arms around his shoulders, the kiss almost tender if he didn't know better.
He'd tried to warn her, but it had been too late. By the time he'd gotten all his words out, she was already ankle-deep in dragon excrement, a look of extreme horror on her bright red face.
"Bright side, you were gonna need a change of boots anyway," he said.
"Are you serious?" she screeched, launching into a tirade about the cost of her shoes and the state they were in, growing more incensed as he responded not with assurances but even more laughter.
"What did you think was going to happ-- ow!" he began to say, interrupted when her palm met his cheek with a resounding crack. "Bloody hell, what was that for?"
"You will fix this immediately," she hissed, imperious but for the fact that she was practically on her toes just to meet his gaze.
"This, Miss Parkinson, is a dragon reserve," he told her. "Stepping into dragon shit is to be expected. Anyone can tell you that, and in fact, I did. One of the female wranglers here can lend you a change of more appropriate clothing should you have nothing other than dresses in your possession, but no amount of cleaning potions or charms will get the shit out of your boots. I would be sorry, except I'm really rather more the sort to say 'told you so', because really, you should have listened to me in the first place."
She was gaping when he turned away, and he didn't risk a look back in case she got the bright idea of throwing a dung-coated boot at him. He got the feeling she was used to getting her way, and he took great pleasure in knowing he was the exception.
Her long, manicured nails dug into his skin, leaving half-moon marks that made him groan and left his muscles taut and straining. Her skin was smooth to his calloused hands, but as she arched and scratched and thrust her hips with urgency, with despair, he knew there was no reason to be gentle. He slid large hands up her thighs, his mouth still hot on her neck as he kissed down the rise of one breast and rolled his tongue against a hardened nipple, her fingers now tearing at his hair and urging him down, down, down--
She smelled of gently scented soap, a flowery sweetness that was out of place in the grimy tent. He wondered briefly when she'd had the time to bathe or even take a shower, but he found he didn't much care. With the first swipe of his tongue and the first strained gasp from her lips, he was lost; there was only the wetness between his lips, the heel digging into the back of his shoulders, the fingers tangled in his hair and her whispered pleas and demands for more, more, even as he licked between her folds and rolled her swollen nub between his teeth.
"Goddamnit, Weasley," she breathed, irritated when he paused for a moment. There was no disguising the want in her tone, no brooking argument to the way she guided him deeper, no denying the way a whimper caught in her throat as he drove his tongue deep inside her. "More," she urged.
Please, Charlie wanted to hear her say.
She never heeded his advice, turning her nose up every time she passed him by, stubbornly still wearing her ridiculous robes and ridiculous shoes. He'd wondered how she managed to clean her shoes until one of the witches let it slip she'd owled for replacements instead, and reinforced them with heavy spells to keep them impenetrable to filth.
He tried to stay away from her path, something made more difficult by the fact that none of the others at the reserve volunteered to be around when she needed assistance, and technically Grabovski had assigned her to him.
"I need a sampling of the Chinese Fireball's stool," she'd tell him, taking an absurd amount of delight in sending him out to gather most of the ingredients she supposedly wanted, even though he could see the jar of stool sitting at the foot of her table days after he'd brought it to her. When he picked it up the next time she asked for a sample, asking her why she needed more when she'd barely touched the one she already had, she simply waved her wand, the jar exploding in his face and the sample splattering onto him.
"The one you gave me got damaged," she said sweetly.
He could still hear her giggling long after he left her tent in a strop.
He pulled away, wearing the devil's grin before he loomed over her, eyes dark with lust as hers were glazed with desire, her frustrated whines exactly what he needed to hear before he reached up, rough and hurried, to cup her breasts in his hands.
"What are you doing?" she asked, so completely and totally unimpressed that he'd stopped he couldn't help chuckling in response.
"What do you think I'm doing?" he shot back, parting her legs so he could slip himself inside her, but there was a palm flat on his abdomen and a hard look in her eyes.
"Not without a spell, Weasel," she snarled.
"I was getting there," Charlie murmured, casting the charm to protect them both. Without waiting for Charlie to say more, and satisfied, apparently, that he'd done as asked, she then hooked a leg around his thigh and pulled him forward, a soft "Oh!" from her lips as he sank swift and deep into her.
A curse slipped past his own lips, her heat enveloping him tightly. She matched each rock of his hips with a thrust of her own, their movements first more awkward and jerky, the need for friction superseding the desire for anything else. His fingers grappled the sheets to anchor himself and he pushed himself up, paused a beat before he fell into a staccato rhythm punctuated by the occasional gasp from one or both of them, the only sounds filling the room the sound of skin against skin, wordless prayers and tuneless moans.
"Gods," she said, one word piercing the peace, and Charlie knew what that meant. He shifted his hand, moving it between them so he could stroke her, hard and fast and unforgiving, until she was tensing and thrashing and close, close, and the name she was crying was his.
He returned the explosive jar of shit with a slug in her morning cereal; she retaliated with a drop of love potion in his coffee. Once he'd shaken off the effects of running after Grabovski for an entire afternoon he snuck into her tent and turned all her robes bright orange. The shriek she made upon this discovery could be heard throughout the reserve, enough that it stirred a few of the sleeping dragons awake and had Grabovski summoning him to his office.
The exasperation in Grabovski's voice was still echoing in his head when he marched into her tent, ducking to avoid the first hex that flew from her wand. He held both hands up just in time to duck the second spell, then grabbed his wand to Summon hers.
"Truce!" he shouted, but she'd flown at him before he could stop her.
"You insufferable, horrible, beastly arse," she hissed, refusing to budge even as he closed his hands around both her wrists-- the woman had some claws on her and he didn't much fancy the idea of getting scratch marks on him.
"Likewise," he replied dryly. "Look, I--"
"Turn them back."
"I will, I will, can we just--"
Now, Weasel!"
Her voice left no room for negotiation, so he did as she asked, a flick of his wrist all that was needed to undo the colouring charm he'd cast on her clothes. "Is that better?"
Her eyes still flashed bloody murder at him, but she was much calmer now than when he first entered. "You're incorrigible," she uttered, cheeks flush with anger.
"You're just as mad yourself." She was still in her stupid clothes and her impractical heels, but she'd also spent nearly a month in the reserve now, and if Charlie didn't know better he'd think she was willfully staying just to spite and defy him. "Can we call a truce, before the entire reserve burns to the ground?"
Both her eyebrows shot up, her eyes narrowing before her lips curled into a sneer. "Had your fill, Weasel?"
"Are you really going to keep poking me until--"
"The way I feel it, it's not me that's doing the poking." There was an irritatingly smug grin on her face, and it isn't until she moved forward, pressing just so, that he realised what she meant and the blood that had been rushing downstream, unnoticed, rushed all the way back to his cheeks.
"I didn't mean--" he started to say, taking one panicked step back.
"Shut up, Weasel," she said, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging him forward to close the gap between their lips.
Sunlight broke through a crack in the tent, a long ray of gold bright enough and angled just right to blind him for a moment, jolting him out of deep sleep as it announced a new day.
"Turn it off," came a voice that was not his. There was a weight on his chest, he noticed, and a mess of dark hair that tickled his skin. When he glanced down, mutinous hazel eyes met his gaze. "I said, turn it off."
Charlie chuckled. "Good morning to you too, princess."
Author: slumber
Characters: Charlie Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Prompt number: 115
Word Count: ~2,400
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit content
Summary: Charlie finds himself with his hands full when Pansy Parkinson is sent to the dragon reserve to research potential potions ingredients -- in more ways than one.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money off it!
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to C, my lovely beta-- any mistakes are mine due to post-beta meddling. ragdoll, this was a fantastic prompt and I greatly enjoyed writing it!
The Modern Witch's Guide to Dragon Wrangling
She kissed as she fought -- fierce and passionate, with a calculated skill that went straight to his groin. Her lips were full and swollen as he sucked on them, her mouth a heat he licked into, her tongue deft as it rubbed against him, coaxing a low sound from the back of his throat that he hadn't even been aware he could make. She was small, pressed against him as she was, but it was his back to the wall of the flimsy tent and his knees that hit the back of his cot as she moved them both toward it.
Before he could even move she was already straddling him, a mess of dark curls falling over her heart-shaped face, one lock tickling the tip of her defiant nose.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you talked too much?" she finally asked, smirking when instead of an answer she drew out a low, keening moan from him instead, brought about by the hand she'd boldly placed against his crotch and used to stroke him to helplessness.
"That is hardly what I'd call fair tactic," Charlie managed to gasp, rolling his hips towards her touch, yearning for more even as she held back, hand light on his length lest he forget what she could do.
"You expected me to play fair?" she asked him, rolling her hips against his still fully clothed trousers. He'd never been happier she'd insisted on wearing the lengthy skirt she did; he could feel her heat through the thin fabric of her knickers, could feel her as she rubbed against him. "It's a pity you're as annoying as you are easy on the eyes."
"Was that a compliment, Parkinson?" He grinned, moving his hands up to rest on her waist, where she immediately slapped them away, eyebrow raised and the ghost of a smirk on her full, red lips.
"Don't even think about it."
Charlie had taken one look at her and gave her three hours, tops.
It was a fair assessment. She had porcelain white skin that would crack and blister easily in the unforgiving heat of the Romanian summer. Her nails were long and manicured to perfection, unsuited to labour harder than raising an idle wand to cast a charm. Her robes were too tight around the shoulders-- the better to show off adequate tits but not to move fully, a dangerous mistake in a dragon reserve-- and too long where it reached her feet. No way the fancy material stayed clean after they crossed the muddy grounds to reach camp. He bet she was wearing heels too; he wouldn't put it past birds like her.
It looked like she knew it too. Her upper lip hadn't de-curled from the faint sneer she wore since he came in, and every so often she took a delicate sniff and pursed her lips, like she was trying not to gag. The last thing they worried about was the stench. They were around it often enough that they'd grown accustomed to it.
A princess like her, though? Charlie would eat dragon dung if she lasted more than a day not smelling like roses and lavender.
"Pleasure to meet you," is what he said though, reaching out to shake her hand once they were introduced. He'd completely missed the introduction, tended to do that whenever Grabovski started talking. He was sure he knew why he was there, anyway. Show the Slug and Jiggers associate around, lead her to camp, make sure the dragons didn't eat her. Simple enough.
Her gaze flickered to his outstretched hand, grimy with dirt and hot with sweat from being out in the field all morning, and ignored it. "I'm sure," she murmured. "Weasley, was it?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, biting his tongue in case he said more. He withdrew his hand, deciding to let the reserve do the dirty work. With one nod to Grabovski, he held out the tent flap to lead her out. "Let me show you to camp."
He arched up, the move sudden as he intended, and in the moment of her caught in surprise he flipped her to her back, the tip of his wand following the length of her body, a hot charm cutting the fabric that held her clothing together.
"Fancy spell," she murmured, something akin to amusement in her gaze while he pushed the material that made up her dress away.
"Trick we learned for treating burns," Charlie explained, sitting up so he could discard his own clothes. "Useful in a pinch, when the fabric's burnt into skin."
"That is both riveting and sexy," she said with a wrinkle of her nose. "I hope you realise you'll be paying for that; it was an original Zapata."
"Riveting and sexy," Charlie echoed, smirking at her as he sat between her legs, hands circling her ankles before he tugged her forward. She sat up just as he leaned closer, his hands around her waist, her arms around his shoulders, the kiss almost tender if he didn't know better.
He'd tried to warn her, but it had been too late. By the time he'd gotten all his words out, she was already ankle-deep in dragon excrement, a look of extreme horror on her bright red face.
"Bright side, you were gonna need a change of boots anyway," he said.
"Are you serious?" she screeched, launching into a tirade about the cost of her shoes and the state they were in, growing more incensed as he responded not with assurances but even more laughter.
"What did you think was going to happ-- ow!" he began to say, interrupted when her palm met his cheek with a resounding crack. "Bloody hell, what was that for?"
"You will fix this immediately," she hissed, imperious but for the fact that she was practically on her toes just to meet his gaze.
"This, Miss Parkinson, is a dragon reserve," he told her. "Stepping into dragon shit is to be expected. Anyone can tell you that, and in fact, I did. One of the female wranglers here can lend you a change of more appropriate clothing should you have nothing other than dresses in your possession, but no amount of cleaning potions or charms will get the shit out of your boots. I would be sorry, except I'm really rather more the sort to say 'told you so', because really, you should have listened to me in the first place."
She was gaping when he turned away, and he didn't risk a look back in case she got the bright idea of throwing a dung-coated boot at him. He got the feeling she was used to getting her way, and he took great pleasure in knowing he was the exception.
Her long, manicured nails dug into his skin, leaving half-moon marks that made him groan and left his muscles taut and straining. Her skin was smooth to his calloused hands, but as she arched and scratched and thrust her hips with urgency, with despair, he knew there was no reason to be gentle. He slid large hands up her thighs, his mouth still hot on her neck as he kissed down the rise of one breast and rolled his tongue against a hardened nipple, her fingers now tearing at his hair and urging him down, down, down--
She smelled of gently scented soap, a flowery sweetness that was out of place in the grimy tent. He wondered briefly when she'd had the time to bathe or even take a shower, but he found he didn't much care. With the first swipe of his tongue and the first strained gasp from her lips, he was lost; there was only the wetness between his lips, the heel digging into the back of his shoulders, the fingers tangled in his hair and her whispered pleas and demands for more, more, even as he licked between her folds and rolled her swollen nub between his teeth.
"Goddamnit, Weasley," she breathed, irritated when he paused for a moment. There was no disguising the want in her tone, no brooking argument to the way she guided him deeper, no denying the way a whimper caught in her throat as he drove his tongue deep inside her. "More," she urged.
Please, Charlie wanted to hear her say.
She never heeded his advice, turning her nose up every time she passed him by, stubbornly still wearing her ridiculous robes and ridiculous shoes. He'd wondered how she managed to clean her shoes until one of the witches let it slip she'd owled for replacements instead, and reinforced them with heavy spells to keep them impenetrable to filth.
He tried to stay away from her path, something made more difficult by the fact that none of the others at the reserve volunteered to be around when she needed assistance, and technically Grabovski had assigned her to him.
"I need a sampling of the Chinese Fireball's stool," she'd tell him, taking an absurd amount of delight in sending him out to gather most of the ingredients she supposedly wanted, even though he could see the jar of stool sitting at the foot of her table days after he'd brought it to her. When he picked it up the next time she asked for a sample, asking her why she needed more when she'd barely touched the one she already had, she simply waved her wand, the jar exploding in his face and the sample splattering onto him.
"The one you gave me got damaged," she said sweetly.
He could still hear her giggling long after he left her tent in a strop.
He pulled away, wearing the devil's grin before he loomed over her, eyes dark with lust as hers were glazed with desire, her frustrated whines exactly what he needed to hear before he reached up, rough and hurried, to cup her breasts in his hands.
"What are you doing?" she asked, so completely and totally unimpressed that he'd stopped he couldn't help chuckling in response.
"What do you think I'm doing?" he shot back, parting her legs so he could slip himself inside her, but there was a palm flat on his abdomen and a hard look in her eyes.
"Not without a spell, Weasel," she snarled.
"I was getting there," Charlie murmured, casting the charm to protect them both. Without waiting for Charlie to say more, and satisfied, apparently, that he'd done as asked, she then hooked a leg around his thigh and pulled him forward, a soft "Oh!" from her lips as he sank swift and deep into her.
A curse slipped past his own lips, her heat enveloping him tightly. She matched each rock of his hips with a thrust of her own, their movements first more awkward and jerky, the need for friction superseding the desire for anything else. His fingers grappled the sheets to anchor himself and he pushed himself up, paused a beat before he fell into a staccato rhythm punctuated by the occasional gasp from one or both of them, the only sounds filling the room the sound of skin against skin, wordless prayers and tuneless moans.
"Gods," she said, one word piercing the peace, and Charlie knew what that meant. He shifted his hand, moving it between them so he could stroke her, hard and fast and unforgiving, until she was tensing and thrashing and close, close, and the name she was crying was his.
He returned the explosive jar of shit with a slug in her morning cereal; she retaliated with a drop of love potion in his coffee. Once he'd shaken off the effects of running after Grabovski for an entire afternoon he snuck into her tent and turned all her robes bright orange. The shriek she made upon this discovery could be heard throughout the reserve, enough that it stirred a few of the sleeping dragons awake and had Grabovski summoning him to his office.
The exasperation in Grabovski's voice was still echoing in his head when he marched into her tent, ducking to avoid the first hex that flew from her wand. He held both hands up just in time to duck the second spell, then grabbed his wand to Summon hers.
"Truce!" he shouted, but she'd flown at him before he could stop her.
"You insufferable, horrible, beastly arse," she hissed, refusing to budge even as he closed his hands around both her wrists-- the woman had some claws on her and he didn't much fancy the idea of getting scratch marks on him.
"Likewise," he replied dryly. "Look, I--"
"Turn them back."
"I will, I will, can we just--"
Now, Weasel!"
Her voice left no room for negotiation, so he did as she asked, a flick of his wrist all that was needed to undo the colouring charm he'd cast on her clothes. "Is that better?"
Her eyes still flashed bloody murder at him, but she was much calmer now than when he first entered. "You're incorrigible," she uttered, cheeks flush with anger.
"You're just as mad yourself." She was still in her stupid clothes and her impractical heels, but she'd also spent nearly a month in the reserve now, and if Charlie didn't know better he'd think she was willfully staying just to spite and defy him. "Can we call a truce, before the entire reserve burns to the ground?"
Both her eyebrows shot up, her eyes narrowing before her lips curled into a sneer. "Had your fill, Weasel?"
"Are you really going to keep poking me until--"
"The way I feel it, it's not me that's doing the poking." There was an irritatingly smug grin on her face, and it isn't until she moved forward, pressing just so, that he realised what she meant and the blood that had been rushing downstream, unnoticed, rushed all the way back to his cheeks.
"I didn't mean--" he started to say, taking one panicked step back.
"Shut up, Weasel," she said, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging him forward to close the gap between their lips.
Sunlight broke through a crack in the tent, a long ray of gold bright enough and angled just right to blind him for a moment, jolting him out of deep sleep as it announced a new day.
"Turn it off," came a voice that was not his. There was a weight on his chest, he noticed, and a mess of dark hair that tickled his skin. When he glanced down, mutinous hazel eyes met his gaze. "I said, turn it off."
Charlie chuckled. "Good morning to you too, princess."