Pansy's Reward

by Slytherinked

Summary:

My prompt:

Pansy goes sunbathing
(Bonus Points: In the Burrow's garden)

Notes:

• In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the Ronsy Fest 2025 collection.

My first ever Ron-centric one-shot, and only my second Ron-as-a-good-guy piece.

Enjoy!

Today would be his last day on Earth.

The thought was fleeting, the knowledge palpable, like snow on sand. He couldn’t focus on it long, the view in front of him too bright, too overwhelming. Ron had walked these same steps countless times before, knew how far to lift his left foot to avoid the slight step on that side. Knew to mind the jagged rock, protruding from the ground and into the walkway just as you left the house. He had done this so many times that even with the sun blinding him, Ron didn’t trip as he stepped into the garden of the burrow. He didn’t trip even as he pushed his sunglasses over his eyes, the sun dimming, and he saw Hermione waving him over to where she lounged on a bed besides-

Alright. Now, he tripped. 

Ronald Weasley, professional Chaser, Witch Weekly's two-time Most Eligible Bachelor, fell over his own foot.

On the sun-lounger next to his oldest and closest friend, lay his worst nightmare. Pansy Parkinson turned her head towards him, expression unreadable through the large glasses that covered almost half her face. Her lips curved in a smile, her hand lifting in a small wave. He should have waved back, to be polite, but he couldn’t move. He felt the sun scorching his chest, cooking him as he stood frozen, only a few metres away. He would need to stay a few metres away, if he was going to survive this. 

She had been brought on seven months ago, paid an absolute fortune to bring her skills to the Canons, and keep them there. Ron had thought her just a Healer, until he fell from his broom mid-game, landing on his shoulder in a way that magic just couldn't fix. In the end, Hermione had explained the Muggle terms of just what Pansy was, the degrees she had, the accolades she had earned. 

Even without knowing all of that, Ronald Weasley had never stood a chance.

At first, their appointments had been daily. Her hands, roaming over him, massaging his muscles and ridding him of knots, might have been innocent, had it been anyone else. But her, with her sharp, emerald gaze, her quick humour, her constant and overwhelming presence. It had taken her mere weeks to get under his skin, so that when he had found out, through Parkinson's new Golden Girl bestie, that Pansy had started sleeping with another man, he'd almost quit the team just so he wouldn't have to face her.

Avoiding her was impossible, even now that their meetings had been reduced to weekly. He saw her everywhere, thought of her every minute. And now, she was here, at his childhood home. Ron would not survive this.

It was inevitable. She was wearing - well, quite honestly, she wasn’t wearing anything. Three little triangles, connected by string. String. String that he could probably tear with his pinky finger, if she let him. There was no question of Ron wanting to. Pansy Parkinson was the only thing Ron wanted, had been wanting, for the better part of a year. 

And, oh, Gods. It was red. She was wearing red. His colour. Not from school, he wasn’t that juvenile. His Quidditch colour. On her skin, contrasting so beautifully against-

He had walked towards her, without even realising it. His hands fisted by his side. Even through her sunglasses, he felt Pansy’s eyes moving over him, felt her assessing him. He flexed, just a little. Not that he needed to. She had already seen almost his entire body. She had touched him, given him tips on how to build more muscle in certain places, keep it in others. That time, she had suggested hip thrusts-

Taking a deep breath, he leaned down to Hermione. 

“Emergency meeting. Now.”

 

---

 

Ron paced the kitchen, trying not to pause at the window just so he could see her one more time. He felt itchy all over, hot despite the cooling charms overlaying the Burrow. Molly had left clear, unbreakable instructions: whilst she and Arthur were gone, Ron was to move back home, to watch the house. The Burrow had a mind of its own, hated to be neglected. Even leaving it lonesome for a day had the boiler on the fritz. So, he'd been confined here. Until Hermione had suggested he have a little get-together. A party.

She hadn't mentioned bringing along Ron's own little nightmare.

When Harry stepped through the doorway, followed by Hermione herself, Ron groaned. Threw his hands into the air. 

“What did you bring him for?”

Hermione frowned. “You called an emergency meeting.” 

“I didn’t mean bring every fucker you’ve ever met.”

“Hey,” Harry called. “I’m not just any fucker, thank you. I'm the bloody Chosen One. What’s you problem?”

“Her,” Ron accused, pointing a finger at Hermione. “You. You did this to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know you went shopping with her yesterday.”

“Pansy?”

“I know you talked her into buying that… whatever it is.”

“The sun-lounger?”

“Not the fucking sun-lounger, Mione. The thing.”

Hermione blinked. Glanced at Harry. “The bikini?”

Ron exhaled slowly, hands on his hips. He wasn't an idiot. He knew full-well that everybody who saw him and Pansy Parkinson in the same room knew that he wanted her. Who couldn't want her? She was nigh-on perfect. Bratty, at times, and a workaholic, and a control freak. 

She was also utterly, completely, and amazingly wonderful. Ron had gotten a sense of it at school but had never truly realised, until he had had her right in front of him.

“Ronald,” Harry said slowly, “women are allowed to wear whatever they want to. Even bikinis."

“I know that,” Ron hissed. “The problem is she,” he pointed at Hermione, “has introduced Pansy Parkinson to clothes that force me to the edge of my sanity.”

“You know, you wouldn’t be like this if you just told her,” Hermione said. Ron rolled his eyes, turning to the window. Of course, his gaze found her, instantly. 

“Tell her what?” Harry asked, paused. Ron imagined he was getting a look from Hermione. “Oh, that he’s absolutely obsessed with her? Yeah, man, you should definitely tell her.”

“I can’t,” Ron said, not for the first time. “She’s my-”

“Colleague, yes, yes,” Hermione sighed. 

“Just because she’s the team Healer, doesn’t mean-”

“She’s not a Healer,” Ron said to Harry. “She’s a kinesiologist.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Harry told him.

“Kinesiologists study movement and function,” Hermione began. Ron groaned. “Pansy uses theory from physical therapy to-”

“You’re not helping!” Ron said, interrupting her, spinning to face them again. “How am I supposed to get through the day when she’s out there looking like that? Gods, don’t tell me Zabini is coming, too.”

“Of course he’s coming."

Ron's head bowed, his eyes squeezing shut. On the backs of his eyelids, visions of them, cuddling close on the sun lounger, his hands touching her, getting what Ron wanted. He had managed to avoid this for so long, actively refusing any invitations to social events he knew they would attend together. Pointedly not asking Pansy about her relationships, steering clear of any-

"He and Ginny will probably get here soon.”

Ron paused. "He and Ginny?”

Harry frowned. “Yes,” he said slowly, “they’ve been doing that lately.”

“Doing what?”

“Ginny and Blaise,” he said. “Blaise and Ginny.” He put his hands together, as if that solved it. 

“But-” Ron stuttered, “Zabini and Parks-”

“Haven’t been sleeping together for months,” Hermione said. “Since Christmas.”

“Since Christmas?” Ron stared at her, looked back through the window. Hermione cocked her hip.

“We did tell you.”

“When?”

“Repeatedly. Pretty much every Wednesday.”

Wednesdays. Being that their lives were so full of work, the Golden Trio struggled to get time together. Their mid-week, bi-monthly meetings, were sacred. But Wednesdays. The day that Ron had his weekly therapy sessions with Parkinson. The day that he usually walked around feeling lost, as if he wasn't supposed to leave her behind but take her with him. He often spent the Golden Piss-up wondering what she was doing, whether she was thinking of him, whether her hands really had lingered on his thigh. Whether she was thinking of him as Zabini-

“You mean…”

“Pansy Parkinson is single.”

This time, when he stepped through the door, Ron’s left foot hit that step. He tripped again.

---

She was exactly where she had been before, laying out on that sun-lounger, one knee bent. Her hair, two braids just past her shoulders, her fringe sticking to her forehead in the heat. She didn’t turn to look at him, but he saw her lips curving as he settled onto what had been Hermione’s lounger. For a moment, they sat in silence. 

“Finally going to say hi?” she asked. Ron swallowed. 

“Hi. Can we talk?”

“Seems that it’s up to you.”

“In private, I mean.” Ron threw his thumb over to the Burrow. “In the house.”

Pansy lifted up on her elbows, turning her head towards the Burrow. The urge to beg her to remove those sunglasses was hard to ignore.

“It will stay standing, even as you stomp through it, right?”

Rolling his eyes, Ron stood, held out a hand. Felt a shiver wrack through him when her fingers slid against his, tugging her gently to stand. He lingered there, just for a moment, before she stepped in front of him. 

Were there truly gods, Ronald Weasley would have been struck down right there and then. Impossible, to keep his eyes off her arse as she traipsed across the garden, back to the house. He tripped over the step on the way in, just as she turned to throw a cheeky smirk at him. Pulling off her sunglasses, Ron felt his heart race at the green in her eyes, never a colour he had particularly enjoyed until he had seen it on her.

“Show me, then.” she said. Ron froze. 

“Show you what?”

“Your old bedroom.”

“Oh, I don’t think-”

“Is it up here?” She started up the stairs, still looking back over her shoulder at him. Ron was struck, not for the first time, with the unending and unavoidable desire to do whatever she told him to, whilst at the same time remind her where she belonged and who with.

“At the top,” he said, quietly. Followed her up the stairs. 

There were few moments in his life that Ron knew he would forever look back upon. Seeing Pansy Parkinson swan into his childhood bedroom, bed still made and fresh thanks to Molly’s obsession with cleaning every inch of her home on a weekly basis, posters of the Cannons on the walls, the Gryffindor scarf. Pansy gave him a look, to which he shrugged. 

“You missed your appointment this week,” she reminded him. 

“Yes, I know.” 

“How’s your shoulder?”

“It’s fine. Perfect, actually. Better than it’s ever been.”

Pansy nodded. “That’s good to hear.”

“You’ve done good things," he said. "For the team, I mean.”

Pansy watched him for a moment, turned away to face his desk. “Right.”

“Are you…” Ron cleared his throat. “Are you still sleeping with Zabini?” 

Well. That was unplanned. When he had first heard about them, Ron had made up his mind to call her out, to challenge her on why she was using another man for what Ron had been ready to offer her. In the end, he had chickened out, instead asked her how to cook pasta the Muggle way, since she had attended Muggle university. He had never built up the courage to press the subject again, the name Zabini being forever carved into his mind as an enemy. 

Now, Parks spun back to face him. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just-”

“You’ve never once asked me about Blaise. Not in the entire six months we’ve been working together.”

“I know.”

“You don’t even…” Pansy shrugged. “You’ve never asked about my love life.”

“That was when I thought you were sleeping with Zabini.”

“Why does that even matter? You don’t want to work with me anymore?”

“Of course I don’t.”

Pansy reeled. 

“I don’t want to work with you, anymore,” he said, taking a slow step towards her. “I don’t want to have to wait all week to see you for one fucking hour on a Wednesday. I don’t want to hear from my friends that you’re finally - finally - single. And I definitely don’t want to be tortured by you, showing up at my house wearing this, and not be able to touch you.” He was so close, now, his head bowed over hers. 

He smelled her, so like the amrotentia that they put in the saunas at the end of the season. Her eyes fluttered, bright green.

“Do you still want to work with me?” he murmured. Felt her stuttered breath on his neck, as she stared up at him. 

“Your shoulder was healed three months ago,” she whispered. Ron stalled.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to keep coming to see me.”

“You told me to.”

“Of course I told you to! If I didn’t, I wouldn’t see you.” Ron saw a blush spreading across her cheeks. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she paused, eyes wide, searching his face, “I only slept with Blaise because I thought…”

“You thought what?”

“I thought that if somebody else had me, you might want me. It was stupid. Blaise was nothing to me. Hermione told me you get jealous and-”

“Parks,” Ron interjected, “I don’t care about Zabini right now, other than the fact that he’s not here. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Slowly, Pansy’s tongue creeped out to dab at her bottom lip, her teeth following suit. Ron watched the movement, felt his blood rushing through his arteries, heading south from his heart. 

"I want..." 

"Pansy. Be a good girl," he crooned, testing something, all of a sudden brave when he breath stuttered, "Tell me. What you want."

"I want to see you, every day," she whispered. "I want to go home with you, and share things with you, and..." Her eyes trailed over his face, down to his lips. He was sure she leaned forward. "I want you to fuck me."

They came together on a groan, Ron wasn’t sure who’s. Her hands drifted up his chest, his skin rippling in response. His own landed on her waist, bare skin, curving over her back, up her spine. When he pressed against the back of her neck, she gasped into his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders. Lifting her, he settled her onto the desk, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. It felt unending, apocalyptic, that if they ever separated, they would find only burned ground around them.

Pulling from her lips, he dragged his mouth over her cheekbone, the way he had imagined doing for so long. Down to nip at her jawline, swirl his tongue down to her pulse point. He heard her whimper, her chin lifting, granting him more access. When he sucked her skin past his teeth, smoothing the bite, her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer. 

“You knew what you were doing,” he muttered against her neck, “when you wore this to my house. Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“You wanted us to get here.”

“Well you weren’t doing anything. I’m tired of waiting.”

“I’ll give you want you want,” Ron whispered, “when you beg me for it.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders. 

“Fuck you, Ronald Weasley.”

He grinned against her. “You’ve had me in pieces for six months, Parkinson. You don’t get off so easily.” The patterns of his mouth found the strap of her bikini. “You wore this to get my attention. Now, you’ll come wearing it.”

“Won’t you just fuck me?”

“First, I want to use this against you.”

“This isn’t a Quidditch tournament, Weasley, you don’t have to beat me.” Even as she spoke, he felt her heart race, his lips pressed to her chest, an inch from the ridiculous piece of fabric covering her nipple. 

“I don’t have to,” he said, feeling her shiver, “I want to.”

Bowing his head, he tongued her nipple through her bikini, feeling her hips roll against his grip, just once. Hearing her huff, he tugged at the strings of her bottoms, rubbing the material where she wanted his fingers. Another movement of her hips in response, her back arching, shoving her breast against his face. 

“The quicker you come, the quicker you get want you want,” he told her, voice raspy. Her fingers dug into his hair, holding him to her chest. 

Ron moved his hand between them, pressing his thumb against the bikini bottoms. Rubbing in slow circles, humming against her to match her gasps. Pansy’s grip in his hair tightened, her nails digging into his scalp. 

“Touch me,” she groaned.

“Beg me,” he said, matching her tone. Smirked when he heard that familiar grunt of frustration. “I’ll give you a taste of what you can have, if you do as you’re told.”

Reaching up, he pulled at the knot over her back palming her spine as the bikini straps loosened. Moving up further, dancing his fingers over her neck as he untied it completely, the fabric over her chest falling. Her chest rose fast, and he leaned back to watch, pressing the growing bulge in his swim shorts against her covered centre, keeping her in place. Smirked, when she glared at him. 

“You’re so beautiful when you’re angry with me, Parks.”

Trailing his fingers down over her shoulder, down to her breast, he thumbed the nipple he had just been toying with, sensitive from the rub of the fabric. Pansy’s grip, on the edge of the desk, tightened, enough so that he thought he heard nails dragging on wood. Her hips rolled against his hardened cock, millimetres between them. Ron ground back into her, unable to resist. 

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, “take what you want.”

He heard a light gasp from her, leaned forward to give both nipples some attention, switching between rolling them between his fingers and nipping at them with his teeth. Her hips moved quicker, becoming rushed, until finally, her grip on the back of his neck, tight and possessive, she came, a strained cry from her throat. Ron pulled her closer, felt her arousal coating the front of his swim shorts as it spilled from behind her bikini. Glancing up from her chest, he smirked against her chest. 

“Good girl,” he muttered. Felt a fluttering through his own chest, when her eyes opened, green bright with lust. 

Pansy tugged him up, her mouth finding his. This kiss was different to the last, slower, more reverent. Ron felt her settling into his blood, into his bones. He felt it shifting, as he reached down to coat his fingers in her wetness, dragging them across her thigh. Lifting it, he held her gaze while he tasted her, watching those emerald eyes widen beautifully. 

“I need more of that,” he said. 

“Next time,” she gasped. “Please, Ron.”

Sighing, he pushed her hair back from her face, tangles of it escaping her braids. Eyes wide and on his face, watching as he tried finding what he had spent so many months hoping for. 

“You’re it for me, Parkinson,” he told her. “I won’t settle for once. I want all of you.”

“Ronald.” She let out a small laugh, pushing her hand down his chest, to the waistband of his shorts. “You’ve had me for over six months. Will you use that head of yours for something other than Quidditch?”

“I’m past games, Pansy.”

“No games,” she said, wrapping her hand around his cock. He groaned, his head falling to her shoulder, his hand dropping to the knot at her hip. “I’m yours.”

He shuddered, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. She pushed his shorts down, as he untied her bikini, pushing the scrap of fabric to the side. Pansy lined him up with her opening, the head of his cock sliding inside with the barest push. As if he were made for her, he filled her in one thrust, sounds of relief and desperation escaping their chests. With one of her legs bent, her foot on the edge of the desk, he held the other to his waist, lifting it high. Straightening, Ron watched as he pulled back, pushed, slowly, enamored by the sigh of his cock moving inside her. 

“Gods,” he hissed, “fucking incredible. Do you feel that?”

“Yes.” Pansy pressed against his back with the heel of her foot, bringing his hips closer. When he ground his pelvis against her, keeping his cock deep, she whimpered. Ron’s heart cracked.

“Jesus, don’t make that sound.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to be a man about this, Pansy. My worst nightmares consist of lasting exactly five seconds and you never looking at me again.”

She laughed, her cunt squeezing around him, and he let out a shocked sound, falling forward, his hand landing on the glass of the window behind her. The change pressed his cock further, and she stopped laughing, gasping instead. 

“We have plenty of time for reruns,” she said, head falling back. “Besides, I’m pretty sure someone might come looking for us, soon.”

“Let them.” Ron pulled back, shoving inside her. “I want them to know who you belong to.”

“They already do. They knew before you did.”

“You’re killing me today, you know that?”

“Taste of your own medicine. You think it’s easy having to watch you ride a broom the way you do, when all I’ve wanted is for you to ride me?” 

“Have you been suffering, baby?”

She pouted. "So much.”

“Such a good girl,” he crooned, pulling out of her, until she had only the tip of him. “So patient. Want your reward?”

“Please,” she said, “please, Ron.”

Using the window pane for leverage, Ron moved, slamming inside her. The force rattled the desk, sent an old ink pot tumbling. Ron didn’t stop, giving his witch what she begged for. Pansy clung to him, gripping his shoulders, throwing her arms around him when he leaned forward to kiss her. Just once, before he pressed his hand between them.

His thumb slid easily over her clit, her arousal thick. When he bowed his head, he could watch her taking him, the sight enough to send him careening towards the edge. Desperate, he held on, meeting her pleas for more, and harder, and deeper, even as he lost his sanity trying to keep from finishing before she did. 

When she finally gave him what he wanted, her cunt spasming around him, he stuttered out her name, loud and thick with emotion. Unable to hold back, he came inside her, his grip on her hips tight enough to bruise, her nails breaking the skin of his back. The knowledge of it, that she was taking all he could give her, sent whatever blood he had left elsewhere straight to his cock, so that even when he was done, he remained half-hard inside her. 

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbled. Pansy grinned, leaning forward to nip at his bottom lip. 

“Don’t be. I’m on some Muggle contraceptive Mione showed me.” She gasped when he rolled his hips experimentally, pushing his come back inside her. “Apparently, it’s even more effective then-”

“Parks, I really don’t care right now. I couldn’t care less if you’re on something or not. I told you, you’re it for me." Brushing his thumb over her clit again, he felt her hips jolt, heard her breath falter. “I hope you weren’t planning on enjoying the sunshine for the rest of today.”

“Not if you’ve got something better for me.”

Ron grinned. Leaned forward to press her back against the window, hand ghosting over her throat. 

“You misbehaved today,” he muttered, “Almost sent me insane with that fucking bikini.”

Pansy hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe I need teaching, how to be good.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

Pansy wrapped her free leg around him, pulling him in, his cock still nestled inside her. 

“Bring it on, Weasley.”

Notes:

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