Sink or Swim

by VerseandVictoire

Summary:

Ron nodded, looking down as he scuffed a groove along the concrete with the toe of his shoe. When he looked back up, the intensity in his eyes stole her breath. They were molten crystal blue, scalding. “Do you always do what you’re told, Pansy Parkinson?”

She cleared her throat. “It’s called responsibility, Ronald Weasley. Do you not?”

He smiled, a slow and wicked flash of white. “I always do what I want.”

---

Pansy Parkinson’s life is the picture of luxury: the mansion, the parties, the older, powerful husband. But perfection is exhausting—and lonely. Then along comes Ron fucking Weasley, her new pool boy equipped with a smug grin, scandalous swim trunks, and zero regard for boundaries. What starts as teasing turns into temptation, and before she realizes it, Pansy’s falling headfirst into the deep end.

The problem? She never learned how to swim.

And Ron might just be the only one willing to teach her.

Notes:

• For FrostedFamiliar, coldbrewcalico.
• In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the Ronsy Fest 2025 collection.

This fic was written for Ronsy Fest 2025 Prompt: Pansy languishes in boredom after her family marries her off to a wealthy older Wizard. Enter: The poolboy.

 

Please enjoy pool boy Ron and his tiny swim trunks! I had so much fun writing the dynamic between him and Pansy.

 

Many thanks to coldbrewcalico and evigheden_7 for beta reading and FrostedFamiliar for cheer reading!

Update 8/10/2025: We now have beautiful artwork featuring pool boy Ron and his tiny trunks drawn by the uber talented SomnophiliaSweetheart!!

---

 

 

Pansy had noticed— of course she’d noticed —how the little twat’s swim trunks seemed to shrink a bit more every week.

Fucking tighter, too. She was fairly certain he’d charmed the same pair to keep getting smaller, because there was no way this particular Weasley could afford new ones weekly.

Deceptively clever.

She hadn’t expected that. Then again, Pansy hadn’t expected much of Ron Weasley or his ilk. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected him at all—let alone sun-kissed skin, broad shoulders dusted with freckles and swirled with ink, a lean, cut torso, and quite possibly the fittest fucking arse she’d ever seen.

The jury was actually still out on that one. But they were leaning strongly in his favor.

No, Pansy had only insisted on a swimming pool because Hermione had gotten one. And then Daphne. And Astoria, naturally. And somehow, they all came equipped with sculpted, sun-warmed young men in low-slung shorts. It had become a running joke this summer—lounging on each other’s pool decks, sipping cocktails, and comparing their pool boys like handbags.

Pool boy. What a bloody concept.

Ogling fit wizards wasn’t new, but the idea of one showing up at her house every few days, half-naked and glistening, was… novel.

And she wasn’t mad about it.

Well, not until she got hers .

There was an unspoken rule among the wives and their pool boys: Look, but don’t touch— discreetly, of course. The husbands couldn’t catch on. That was the game. Their precious eye candy only worked so long as it remained ornamental and unclaimed.

No one had dared to do more than ogle over the curved rims of their sunnies. Certainly, no one touched. The pool boys knew the drill: keep skimming, keep scrubbing, pretend not to notice— while flexing. It's how they earned their tips.

But Ron Weasley? He knew the rules, yet seemed determined to break them.

Or worse—break her. Specifically her will, which to Pansy’s growing horror seemed to dwindle with each sweat-drenched visit.

The bloody prat had winked at her the very first day he arrived at the manor. And he hadn’t stopped. Every time he caught her staring— which was regrettably often —he’d wink with a smug, knowing curve to his freckled lips.

Just yesterday, she’d been peeking from behind the curtains in the drawing room, and the bastard caught her watching him through the window. He saluted— saluted —before bending down to skim a few leaves from the pool. His near-speedo rode up, clinging in a way that should be considered illegal , just like he knew it would. 

The fucking tease.

“You’re drooling again,” Theo drawled from the lounger beside her.

Pansy flinched as his voice pulled her from her wandering thoughts— and eyes . She looked over at her best friend and biggest pain in her arse, barely resisting the urge to chuck her sunhat at his smug little face. She adjusted her sunnies instead, resettling them on the bridge of her nose like a war mask.

“Oh, shut it. I am not,” she sniffed, lifting her cocktail glass with as much dignity as she could muster. Ice softly clinked against the sides as she placed the thin straw between her lips, careful not to smudge her cherry red lipstick. 

Theo, sprawled like a cat in the sun, lowered his own sunglasses just enough to peer over the top. “You sure about that, mummy dearest? Might want to wipe your chin.”

Pansy turned her head sharply, fixing him with a glare. “Don’t call me that or I’ll smack you upside the head like any good mum would.”

“I don’t think good mums eyefuck the pool boy, ” he said mildly, stretching his arms behind his head.

Pansy sat up, nearly choking on her drink. “Theo—”

“Then again,” he continued with a wicked glint in his eye, “what do I know? I never had a mum until you came along and swept Father off his bloated, gout-ridden feet. What a gift .”

She shot him a saccharine smile. “Gods above, if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll drown you in the pool and blame it on the weasel—”

“That sounds highly illegal,” a low voice rumbled from behind.

Pansy froze.

Her stomach swooped as she straightened her spine and tried to ignore her heart thudding against her ribs like a fucking traitor. She didn’t turn right away.

She already knew it was him. He could wait.

Pansy could feel the heat radiating off his sun-warmed skin, and smell the faint whiff of chlorine and that maddening trace of coconut Muggle sunscreen he always wore. She imagined droplets of water tracking down the cuts along his hips, or the way his swim trunks—Merlin, those bloody trunks—had looked earlier, clinging like a second skin while he adjusted the pool skimmer and himself.

Theo, unbothered as ever, raised his drink lazily and muttered, “Ah. The weasel cometh.”

The twat had seen him approaching the whole time, and let her run her mouth on purpose.

Pansy shot him a scathing glare, unable to decide if she wanted the earth to swallow her whole or if she wanted to hex Theo into the next fucking century. Preferably both. Instead, she shifted on her lounger, ignoring the other traitor occupying the space inside her ribs as it slammed into her chest with alarming speed. Then she slowly turned her head.

“Pool boy,” she greeted coolly, as if she hadn’t been mentally licking his hipbones five minutes ago. “It appears the only crime committed is the murder of your sense of humor.”

Ron raised a brow, folding his arms across his chest. His biceps flexed with the movement, sweat slicking over the inked muscle. “Hard to find anything funny when it’s so bloody hot in here.”

Good. That was the plan. Pansy had notched the weather wards a few degrees higher and the sun a little brighter that morning, knowing full well what it did to him. He always stripped down faster when the air was hot and heavy.

Her gaze slid down, briefly, catching the gleam of sweat that rolled from his collarbone down to the ridge of his abs, disappearing into those cursedly low swim trunks. She tore her eyes back up— mistake.

Ron’s eyes were already on her, amusement shimmering in pools of crystal blue.

He knew. Of course he knew. And the bastard liked it.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I took a quick dip before I finish up,” he said, nodding toward the pool. “I’ll give the water an extra skim after.”

“That doesn’t sound like a question.”

Ron’s mouth curved. “Well, the others keep it cooler in their weather wards. And they usually let me take a dip.”

“What others ?”

He cocked his head, allowing his hands to fall to his hips. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he watched Pansy’s gaze track the movement. She fought the urge to lick her lips at the way Ron’s fingers notched into the deep V, framing the light trail of copper hair that continued beneath his trunks.

He cleared his throat, and her gaze snapped back up. Caught again.

“Hate to break it to you, princess,” he said, his lips twitching. “But you’re not my only client. Didn’t your mum teach you to share?”

Pansy’s smile flickered. “I never knew my mum,” she deadpanned, before taking another sip of her drink. A few drops of condensation rolled down her wrist and arm. She kept her eyes locked with Ron’s as she slowly dragged her tongue along the trails collecting the moisture with the tip of her tongue. It was high time for some payback.

His satisfied smirk faltered, and the grip on his hips tightened as he shifted on his feet.

“No mums club!” Theo lifted a lazy hand for a high-five, then frowned. “Actually, that’s not entirely true now, and probably not the vibe we’re going for.”

It broke the trance, ruining whatever heat Pansy felt building between her and the fit weasel. It was definitely for the best, but Gods. Theo was obviously an only child. 

Ron’s brows pulled together. He glanced at Theo, then back at Pansy, and she sighed. “Don’t ask,” she muttered. “Anyway, you’re right. I don’t share.”

His grin returned, wider, revealing a dangerous little dimple in his left cheek. “You sound jealous.”

She scoffed. “You’re raving mad.”

“No,” he quipped, already turning. “I’m just hot.”

Then, without waiting for permission, he jogged to the edge and launched himself into the pool, tucking his knees to his chest. He’d curled himself into a bloody cannonball.

The splash was enormous. A wave sloshed straight over the edge, soaking Pansy’s legs and drenching Theo’s linen shirt. Pansy shrieked. Theo just cackled.

Ron surfaced, hair plastered to his forehead, before shaking his head like a fucking dog, spraying droplets in every direction.

“ Stop it! ” Pansy snapped, but then she chuckled in spite of herself.

“See,” he smirked, treading water, “I think you’re the one who could use a sense of humor. Do you even enjoy this pool that you ensure is meticulously kept? Or do you plan to lounge and pout those obscenely red lips all summer?”

Not caring for an answer, he swam with strong, smooth strokes, dragging through the water over to the far edge. When he hauled himself out, water streamed off him in thick rivulets. He grabbed a towel, wholly unbothered about helping himself to her linens, and dried himself off while facing her.

And Pansy, Gods help her, bit down on a gasp.

His trunks clung so tightly they left nothing to the imagination now. It was utterly indecent. He must have used that infernal charm again, because there was no way water alone had done that to the fabric stretched around the very prominent outline of his thick co—

“Still drooling,” Theo muttered.

Pansy’s head whipped toward him, the dampened strands of her black bob slapping her face. She frowned, wiping her wet sunnies on her mercifully dry sarong. “You know why I never wanted children?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “No, but I assume you’re about to enlighten me.”

“Pregnancy, for starters. Have you seen Granger lately?” She wrinkled her nose. “The poor thing looks like she’s about to burst open and unleash a tiny blonde Dark Lord. It’s why we’ve got the pool to ourselves today. Draco’s locked her in the manor like some sacred, swollen artifact. Probably massaging her ankles and shagging her arches. Who knows what freaky shit goes on in that house? I certainly don’t ask the portraits…” She trailed off, eyes drifting again, despite her best efforts.

Ron was crouched by the filter now, forearm deep in the opening, shoulder flexing with each methodical movement. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth in that way he always did when focusing. The tendons in his neck shifted as he worked, muscles taut under skin swallowed by freckles from long hours in the sun. Then he ran a hand through his soaked copper hair, trying to clear it from his eyes. It was futile, but unbearably hot for some reason, to watch him struggle.

Pansy wet her lips before she realized she was doing it.

“And secondly,” she said airily, gaze fixed, “I just knew they’d be little shits.”

Theo snorted into his drink. “And now you’ve got me. Haven’t you heard of self-fulfilling prophecies?”

“Never put stock in them,” she replied, her eyes still on Ron. He stretched, causing a long, slow pull of muscle, shoulder arching as he reached deeper into the filter. His torso twisted just enough to show off the cut of his obliques and the lion inked there.

Then he looked up.

Caught.

Their eyes met—just for a second—but it was long enough.

Ron’s mouth tugged into a slow, lopsided grin. So fucking smug. Like he knew exactly what filthy things she’d just been thinking. Which, to Pansy’s horror, would make him right.

She blinked hard, face stony as she yanked her gaze back to Theo, who hadn’t missed a beat. The tosser was smiling like a Cheshire cat. 

Pansy rolled her eyes and dabbed at the sweat trailing down the back of her neck. “Yeah. Definitely hadn’t put any stock in them until now,” she finished, tone bone-dry.

Theo raised his glass in a silent salute. “You’re in so much trouble.”

 

Artwork by: SomnophiliaSweetheart

---

 

Pansy’s perfectly manicured toes curled around the edge of the pool. Ever since Ron had offhandedly teased that she’d never so much as dipped a toe, she’d considered testing the water—just the shallow end, of course. Now seemed as good a time as any.

Carefully, she edged closer, straddling the line between the shallow and deeper stretch where the tile shifted from pale blue to shadowed indigo. Pansy could barely swim, but she’d rather drown in front of an entire gala guest list than admit that.

Instead, she stared down at the bottom of the pool, where the tiled Nott family crest shimmered beneath the rippling surface. Her gaze followed the gleaming black serpent curled around the silver yew tree, then traced the edge of the ornate shield down to the Latin script that curved beneath it.

“Silentium est Potentia,” a voice murmured near her ear, deep and amused.

She yelped, startled—

And slipped.

With a splash, Pansy plunged straight into the water, her shriek cut off as she inhaled on instinct. Panic bloomed fast and viciously. She kicked out in every direction, trying to remember how to move her limbs in any kind of coordinated way, but her chest seized in sharp, hot pain.

She was sinking. Quickly.

Just as the edges of her vision began to blur, strong arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her upward, toward the surface—toward air and burning sun.

Pansy collapsed onto her knees the moment they reached the deck, uncaring of the sharp sting as the stone scraped them raw. She choked and coughed violently, spitting up water with each wrenching breath.

Ron dropped beside her, his presence steady and grounding. One warm hand splayed wide across her back as he waited it out. His thumb drew slow, calming circles as her body convulsed. Only when she’d finally stopped retching did he deadpan, “Who buys a pool when they can’t swim?”

Oh, fuck him.

Pansy weakly shoved his hand off. “I can swim,” she snapped, between gulps of air. “You just snuck up on me like some kind of creepy lurker. What the fuck are you even doing here, Weasley?”

He scoffed. “ You asked me, remember? Extra cleaning before tonight’s Solstice Party? You said the water had to be as ‘pure as your blood.’ Thought it was a joke. Now I’m not so sure.”

She coughed once more, then flicked her soaked hair out of her face and sat back on her heels. Water streamed down the curve of her neck and collected in the hollow of her collarbone before continuing its journey down between her breasts. She felt his gaze track every drop, lingering at the spot where her barely-there bikini clung to damp skin.

Her nipples tightened traitorously under the thin fabric, and she shifted, trying to rise, but the bite of pain in her skinned knees made her falter.

Ron caught her again, his hands rough and maddeningly steady. The heat of his touch seared through her, feeding the slow burning embers low in her belly.

“Fuck,” she muttered as their eyes met. Her skin flushed in a gradual, mortifying sweep—pink blooming from her chest up her throat to her cheeks.

He watched the color rise with undisguised interest. “Why don’t you let me—”

“No,” she cut in, sharp and a little breathy, yanking out of his grip as if it burned. “I think you’ve done enough .”

His eyes flashed, and the corner of his mouth tugged. “Yeah? I’d say dragging you out of the deep end counts as going above and beyond. Do I get a bonus ?”

The way he said it—husky, with the hint of something darker under the surface—had nothing to do with extra Galleons.

Pansy’s mouth went dry while somewhere else felt rather wet. Ron’s gaze didn’t flinch. It dragged over the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, and dipped—blatantly—to the barely concealed heat between her thighs.

Fucking hell. This man was dangerous.

“I told you,” she said, breathless and completely unconvincing, “I can swim. Just… do your job.”

He studied her a second longer, then in a moment of mercy, he clapped his hands against his knees and rose. “Right. Water’s not going to clean itself.”

Pansy didn’t look back. She stood, ignored the sting in her knees, and stalked toward the manor.

Away from that redheaded menace and the trouble he promised.

 

---

 

As the sun finally set, bidding the sky farewell over the garden hedges, Pansy sighed. It truly felt like the longest day of the godsdamned year. Which, naturally, made this the longest party as well.

She heard Nott Sr. summon her over his shoulder with a clipped "Pansy." No title. No softness. Just her name, like an afterthought.

She inhaled a steadying breath before pushing off the terrace railing, heels clicking with practiced poise as she waded through a plume of cigarette and cigar smoke. The circle of wizards closed around her husband like moths to a flame, each one vying for even a flicker of attention from the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic.

She swallowed a sigh. “Yes, dear?” she asked lightly, bringing her champagne coupe to her lips in a delicate sip.

Pansy tried to ignore the wandering eyes of the heavily mustached men around him, their stares sliding down the deep neckline of her emerald green gown. The slit in her skirt tugged open with the breeze, revealing the porcelain skin of her upper thigh. One man barely concealed a smirk. Another didn’t bother at all.

Her husband didn’t look like he noticed, nor cared, per usual.

She’d long since stopped trying to get his attention—trying to make the arranged marriage into something soft or real. Pansy was a pawn in his rise, and a poorly disguised dowry. A strategic merger sealed with a wedding ring and high-society approval. And now a true trophy wife viewed as a silk-wrapped accessory he could put on and take off at will.

Finally, he deigned to glance at her, dark eyes bleary with drink, cheeks flushed with power. His arm flopped lazily in her direction.

“Gentlemen,” he began, voice fortified with false amusement, “you’ll forgive the interruption. My wife insists on standing here looking beautiful until I give her a task.”

A few chuckled.

Pansy kept her smile frozen, lips curved just so, as her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the fragile stem of her glass.

“Be a darling and fetch my pocket watch from the study,” he continued, turning back to the conversation before she could respond. “The antique one. Gold casing, dragon relief. I left it on the desk.”

Someone whispered something about wives and obedience. Someone else murmured how lucky he was.

Pansy dipped her head gracefully, ignoring the low laughter that rippled behind her. She pivoted on her heel, skirts trailing in wisps like the smoke behind her as she headed for the manor—each step graceful, precise, and perfectly silent.

Just as he liked her, quiet and decorative. Useful only when summoned.

But Gods, one day, he would regret underestimating her.

After completing her little errand , Pansy excused herself for some air, citing the noise and her delicate nerves, before slipping away in search of Theo and Potter. She plucked two glasses of champagne from a floating tray without breaking stride, her heels clicking with purpose across the terrace as she veered toward the pool—the one corner of the estate still mercifully untouched by the riotous din behind her.

The water sparkled, eerily serene beneath the dull gleam of the moon.

Figured.

She’d asked Weasley to clean the bloody thing—scrub it spotless, make it gleam like a jewel, and now no one would even notice. No one cared. Pansy had nearly drowned in the pursuit of perfection, while in service of an aesthetic that was all a fragile shrine. A bloody puritanical altar for a society so far from pure it could barely remember what truth tasted like.

With a quick look at the manor looming over her shoulder, Pansy decided to ditch the heels, eager to feel something real tonight. If that happened to just be the grass and the rough cement of the pool deck, so be it. Just anything to ground her before she floated away in a sparkling champagne haze.

She lifted her drink in a silent cheers to the moon, then downed the first glass of bubbles in a few unladylike gulps and tossed the empty flute onto a stray table between two loungers. Then, barefoot now, she walked the edge of the pool—a bit too close—heels swinging lazily from her fingers. She dared the water to reach up and drag her back down, to finish what it started earlier.

As she walked this tight-rope, she drained the second glass more slowly, letting the bubbles sting her throat. When she reached the end, she sighed. Pansy wasn’t ready to return to the party—to rejoin the madness. Her absence would likely go unmissed. But most often, Nott Sr. liked to keep her hovering around him to order about, like some endless source from which he could feed his hunger for control. 

Pansy finally decided to resume her search for Theo—her actual husband in companionship, not the bloated puppeteer that manned her strings.

She paused.

A muffled voice floated on the summer breeze, ruffling her sleek bob. Pansy stilled, eyes sweeping the shadows, but found nothing.

And then, there it was again. The voice was sharper this time, shriller and unmistakably female. Her eyes darted to the right.

There.

The pool house.

As she neared, Pansy made out two voices, the second was low and gritted in that unmistakable timber. Her curiosity sharpened. She clocked a narrow rectangular window, open just above a tall storage chest packed with floats and maintenance equipment. With a muttered curse for ditching her heels, she climbed up, balancing with one hand on the wall and rising onto her toes.

The voices grew a little clearer. The female she’d heard first—blonde, from the flash of hair visible through the window—stood with her back turned in a shimmering pink gown. But the man pacing and rumbling like a thundercloud in dress robes?

Ron.

Of course it was fucking Ron.

She strained to hear, catching only fragments, every other word lost to the hum of crickets and the faint echo of the party behind her. Still, his tone said enough—he was furious, his breath catching on every clipped phrase. Crimson flushed his cheeks, rising from the collar of his robes like a flame licking at his freckles. His arm sliced through the air in a sweeping gesture, robes pulling tight over his chest and shoulders. Pansy’s lips parted, her mind turning to pure static.

He looked—Gods help her—so fucking fit.

All that contained fury and barely-leashed strength, that body she’d felt crushed against hers when he’d pulled her from the water. It was almost criminal how attractive he still looked fully clothed.

“Lav, you need to tell me. You can’t just whisk them away whenever you feel like it—they’re just as much mine as they are yours! Literally fifty percent!”

Lav.

Oh.

Lavender Brown. Pansy blinked. Was he married? Did he have children?

She tried to listen harder, leaning just a bit more, but her elbow slipped. It smacked the metal arm propping the window open, dislodging the support. The windowpane slammed shut with a brutal snap, crushing her fingers beneath it.

Pansy howled, tumbling down onto the lid of the chest. Pain radiated up her arm, white-hot and blinding, and she cradled her hand to her chest. Tears blurred her vision—out of shock more than anything else, she told herself—but Gods, it hurt.

And her wand. Her bloody wand was back in the manor. She gritted her teeth and looked down. Her fingers were already swelling, turning blotchy and red, and the pressure of her wedding band was unbearable. She tugged, but it wouldn’t budge past her knuckle.

“Fuck,” she hissed through her teeth.

“Figured it was you.”

She didn’t look. Simply couldn’t while she was too busy trying not to scream.

Ron hoisted himself onto the chest beside her with surprising grace. One glance at her hand and he muttered a low curse.

“Come on. We need light.”

He didn’t wait. Just scooped her up like she weighed nothing, carried her down to the pool house, and gently set her atop a pile of spare lounge cushions once inside. She couldn’t find the strength to argue.

“Why the hell haven’t you charmed it?”

“Wand… at… the manor,” she gritted out.

“Brilliant,” he mumbled. “Lav nicked mine. Right, okay…”

He took her hand. His fingers were rough, but the hold was gentle. She opened her mouth to protest, then watched, stunned, as he brought it to his lips.

“Ron, what are you—”

“Hold still .”

He slid her ring finger between his lips, warm and wet, his tongue pressing and swirling around the swollen knuckle. Her breath stuttered. Gods, it hurt, but the pain tangled messily with something else entirely as she watched the way his mouth worked her finger, deliberately ensuring every bit became slick with his saliva. Heat pooled low in her belly, shameful but immediate despite the throbbing pain.

His teeth caught the band, and he slowly— so slowly —dragged it over her knuckle, never breaking eye contact. She hissed, half pain, half something far more dangerous as his teeth delicately scraped along her tender skin. When the ring finally cleared the swelling, she exhaled in a gasp of relief.

But Ron didn’t stop.

He dragged the band the rest of the way at a torturous pace, his tongue flicking once, twice, before releasing her finger with a soft, obscene pop. Then he turned her hand over and spit the ring into her palm, golden and glistening with saliva, cradled between their joined hands.

They didn’t move. Ten heartbeats passed. She counted every thundering one.

“I, uh—” she croaked, throat dry.

“Yeah,” he muttered before clearing his throat and looking away.

Her cheeks burned. Her hand still throbbed. She glanced down at her wedding ring, then up again at his fucking competent mouth. And outside, somewhere beyond, her husband was probably telling another joke at her expense, hopefully getting drunk enough to forget she existed.

She swallowed hard.

Regret was a fire she’d grown used to. But this?

This burn felt like something else entirely.

Pansy stood abruptly and put a little distance between them, doing her level best to reassert some semblance of control. “So,” she said, too casually, as she leaned against a steel table cluttered with gardening tools, “you and Lavender are married?”

He didn’t look at her. Just stared straight ahead, voice hollow. “Separated. I wish you hadn’t seen that. Wasn’t exactly my proudest moment.” He paused, jaw tight. “She just—” he swallowed, and the easy bravado she’d come to expect from him flickered out. “It’s not her fault. Krum isn’t retired like I am. He’s always traveling with the team, and Lav wants to go with him, with the kids. She just… forgets to tell me sometimes.”

He trailed off, still staring at the cushions at his feet. “I’ve always had a temper. Bit of a Weasley defect.” Then he turned, eyes narrowing. “And what were you doing snooping? I thought I was the creepy lurker here.”

Pansy snorted. She shifted, wincing as her injured fingers pressed against the hard edge of the table. “I wasn’t snooping. I just needed air and heard your voices.”

“It’s an outdoor party.”

“Doesn’t mean the people aren’t suffocating,” she shot back. Without thinking, she added, “I envy your separation.” The words escaped before she could catch them. She pressed her lips together, regretting it instantly. “I didn’t mean—that came out more callous than I intended.”

Ron tilted his head, hands sliding into the pockets of his robes. A few copper strands fell loose, brushing across his brow. “So why can’t you just ask for one?”

A flush of blistering indignation burned away her embarrassment. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“I’m a pureblood too, princess . Try me.”

She wrinkled her nose at the nickname. “It was arranged. I obviously didn’t marry a rotund hot air balloon of a man for love. My father told me to… only a week before the wedding.”

Ron nodded, looking down as he scuffed a groove along the concrete with the toe of his shoe. When he looked back up, the intensity in his eyes stole her breath. They were molten crystal blue, scalding. “Do you always do what you’re told, Pansy Parkinson?”

She cleared her throat. “It’s called responsibility , Ronald Weasley. Do you not?”

He smiled, a slow and wicked flash of white. “I always do what I want.”

His gaze dropped, following the slender curve of her throat to the deep dip of her neckline. Her skin prickled as if he’d dragged his fingers along the ivory stretch between her breasts. She shifted, and the slit in her skirt parted, revealing the length of one thigh. His eyes caught on the movement, and his teeth tugged at his bottom lip.

“Wanna hear what I want right now?”

Weeks of tension swelled inside her, boiling over the edge. “Yes,” she breathed.

“I want you to tell me what you want… princess .”

The way he purred the last word sent a jolt straight to her core, like he’d whispered it directly to her cunt.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she pointed to the ground. “On your knees.”

Ron held her gaze as he sank slowly to the floor. Then he waited obediently. The sight of it woke something dormant but ravenous deep inside her. No one had ever asked Pansy what she wanted. Except, now she knew:

Control.

Even if only for a moment.

Pansy let her hands drift down her sides, tracing the dip of her waist to the swell of her hips. Her fingers caught the hem of her skirt and pulled—little by little—hiking the emerald fabric high. She slid back onto the table, silk bunching at her waist, and parted her legs with graceful command. One foot rose to the edge of the metal, her thigh lifting, baring the soaked slip of her knickers.

Ron’s gaze locked onto the wet fabric. His breath hitched as he followed the outline of her cunt, how the cling of silk hugged every swollen, delicate curve. When she hooked her finger under the lace and tugged it aside, the flash of silver below her neatly trimmed dark curls caught the dim light.

Her fingers danced over the rebellious piercing, giving it a teasing flick. 

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. Ron’s pupils were already blown, eyes gone totally black, as his restraint frayed visibly. She watched his jaw flex and his cock strain against the seam of his trousers. Still, he waited, bound by her silence.

“What do you want now, Weasley?” she purred, her finger circling her throbbing clit with lazy, taunting strokes.

His growl was low and unrepentant. “I want to devour that perfect fucking cunt until you're screaming loud enough for your smug bastard of a husband to come running.”

The corner of her mouth curled. “Good. Then crawl for it.”

There was a beat—a flicker of hesitation—then the last gasp of his pride.

“If I’m truly a princess ,” she went on silkily, “then you, pool boy , are nothing but a subject. Crawl to me. Lick me clean. Prove you’re worthy of fucking me.”

The tension in his shoulders coiled like a spring. A muscle jumped in his jaw, that familiar Weasley defiance flickering hot behind his eyes. For a moment, she thought he might rise, so she dipped one slender finger inside herself, gathered her slick, and dragged it back over the glinting silver of her clit.

That broke him.

Ron dropped to his hands without another word, crawling across the floor like a man collared, and she held the leash. He moved slowly at first, an attempt to tease and test the boundaries of her control.

Pansy gave him nothing but a second finger, spreading and stretching herself wide. Her head tipped back, and a low moan spilled from her lips. “You’d better hurry,” she warned on a slow exhale. “Or I’ll come before your tongue even gets a taste.”

He surged forward, eyes fixed between her thighs. Then he knelt before her, breath shallow, waiting.

“Good boy,” she cooed, curling her bruised fingers beneath his chin. She tilted his face up and her thumb traced the soft dip of his lower lip, then the swell of his top as if she could smudge the freckles there. The heady feeling of control—of watching six feet of solid, sun-kissed man crawl to her—hit like a drug, pulsing from her cunt to her fingertips. Pansy pressed her thumb forward between his lips, into the heat of his mouth.

He closed around her with a groan, sucking her thumb deeper, tongue working in thorough swirls. She felt the jolt of desire in her core like a live wire.

Ron was giving her quite the preview—a filthy promise. And he hadn’t even fucking tasted her yet.

Pansy withdrew her fingers and leaned back onto her elbows, eyes glittering with challenge. She lifted her other foot onto the table, spreading herself wide, and presenting the flash of her piercing, the dark curls, her dripping folds— everything —to him like a bountiful feast to a starving man.

“Go on, then,” she ordered.

Ron didn’t hesitate. He dragged his rough, calloused hands up her calves, over her knees, and down the velvet skin of her inner thighs. She gasped at the friction, the contrast between his coarse palms and her silken flesh making her core clench for him already.

He ducked his head, hovering just above her cunt, close enough to feel the heat of his breath—

And then stopped.

Her eyes snapped down.

The look he gave her was pure, fucking trouble. “Just because I’m on my knees,” he murmured roughly, “doesn’t mean I won’t fucking ruin you.”

The retort caught in her throat.

Before she could speak, his fingers sank into the soft curls at the apex of her thighs and yanked her forward. Her body slid to the edge with a gasp, and then his mouth was on her.

The cry that tore from her lips was raw as pain twisted into unbearable pleasure when his lips sealed around her clit. He sucked hard, tongue flicking relentlessly against her silver hoop, then flattened and dragged it slowly, making her hips buck off the table.

Pansy’s fingers scrabbled against the metal, desperate for something—anything—to hold onto. Her knuckles blanched, her head fell back, and the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the punishing rhythm of his tongue, and the devastating satisfaction of finally being touched exactly the way she wanted.

Precisely the way Pansy deserved to be worshipped.

“That’s it,” she panted. “Lap at me like a fucking dog.”

His fingers flexed against her, just enough for her to know the insult hit its mark. And then he retaliated.

His teeth closed around her clit ring and gave it a sharp, deliberate tug.

Pansy cried out, her hips jerking violently upward, but he slammed her back down with a forearm to her pelvis, pinning her to the cold, unforgiving steel of the table. His mouth didn’t falter. If anything, he doubled down, tongue ruthless, lips sealing over her soaked folds like he was still starved—like Pansy was his last fucking meal.

Then, two fingers plunged into her without warning.

She screamed.

The stretch stole her breath, her cunt clenching tightly around him, as Pansy already teetered on the edge. Ron groaned into her, the sound vibrating straight through her clit as his fingers curled perfectly inside her. And when his teeth grazed her clit again—just once—she shattered.

Her climax tore her open and filled her until it almost felt too much, like she’d drown in her pleasure. Her cry echoed off the walls of the pool house, her body wracked with trembling aftershocks as he kept licking, slow and possessive, coaxing every last spasm out of her. His thumbs stroked lazy, reverent circles over her inner thighs, dragging her back to earth again.

Still shaking, Pansy reached down and fisted the collar of his shirt, yanking him up until she could claim his mouth with hers. She tasted herself on his tongue and groaned into the kiss, letting it go sloppy and deep. But when his hands slid to her waist, she shoved him back before he could so much as take hold.

“You’re entirely too clothed,” she rasped. “Strip.”

He obeyed instantly—robes shrugged off, buttons fumbled open with haste, as if he’d been waiting years, not weeks, for the command. And there he was: a glorious, panting body cut from years on the pitch.

She stared at the very muscles she’d dreamt of marking, ridges she’d imagined tracing, and those obscene grooves at his hips that practically begged for her tongue.

Oh fuck .

He stepped out of his trousers, and his cock sprang free—long, thick, flushed with need and already dripping for her.

Her breath hitched. She reflexively licked her lips, and Ron caught it, his eyes growing impossibly dark.

That was it. She watched the decision click behind his eyes. He was done playing this little game he’d proposed earlier—done humoring her. She got what she wanted, and now it was his turn to tell her what he wanted. And if his capable mouth was any indication of what he had left to offer, Pansy was more than willing to listen.

He stepped forward and wrapped a firm hand around her throat, not squeezing—just holding, claiming, guiding. He dragged her to her feet until they were chest to chest, nose to nose, and the simmering frustration in his voice nearly made her come again.

“Turn around,” he growled. “Bend over. I’ve more than earned the right to make you scream again—with that greedy, soaked cunt wrapped tight around my cock, milking every last drop of premium Weasley seed deep inside you. Yeah? That what you want?”

Pansy whimpered, lost in the force of him.

“Because it’s all I’ve thought about. Every cursed day I come to this fucking pool—watching your filthy little mouth, the way your teeth worry your lip like you’re dying for something to suck. Every fucking scandalous triangle of fabric stretched tight over those tits and that perfect pussy, driving me to the brink of madness.”

He pressed closer, breath hot against her ear. “You’re a goddess, Pansy. And it's enraging to see you ignored. You deserve better than that sorry thumb of a husband. I want to show you how much.”

“Yes,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Please.”

Ron’s lips crashed into hers—hot, ravenous—and Pansy met him with equal hunger. One hand slid from her throat to the delicate strap of her gown, tugging it down her shoulder. The other followed, slipping the fabric away, baring her to the cool air and his feverish touch. His palm swept up her ribs, fingers curling over her breast to pinch and roll her nipple. She mewled into his mouth, arching against him.

He broke the kiss with a growl, trailing rough bites down her neck, his cock pressing hard against her belly—warm and pulsing. She rolled her hips into him and he snarled against her throat, “ Evil fucking witch .”

Then he spun her. In a blur of motion, she was turned and folded in half. Her hands clutched her ankles for balance as he stepped away. Pansy blinked, breath ragged, watching him through her legs as he dropped into a stray lounge chair that had been pushed near the far wall. She hadn’t even realized he’d moved them across the room.

The next moment, his hands were back—gripping her ass, spreading her open—and his tongue dragged a long, possessive lick from front to back. She moaned, legs trembling and still sensitive from his mouth earlier.

Ron licked again, greedier, then kicked her feet farther apart and yanked her back, hovering her over his cock. She looked down just in time to see him slide the thick head through her folds, coating himself in her slick and teasing her entrance.

Pansy tried to sink down, but he stopped her.

His fingers bruised her hips, holding her still while he leaned in, voice rough against her ear. “Alright, princess. Time to take your fucking throne—”

Before the final word was out, he slammed up into her and yanked her down all at once. Pansy screamed, her hands flying to grip his knees as he split her open. Every inch of him pushed her limits, made her feel branded from the inside out.

There was no gentle pace—only Ron, brutal and unforgiving. He folded her forward, changing the angle, and she sobbed while he hit that perfect, devastating spot over and over. One hand found her clit, working tight circles, and Pansy started to shake, her pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until she thought it might bloody end her. Pansy wasn’t sure she’d mind.

“You’re such a fucking gorgeous mess for me,” he panted. “Has anyone ever fucked you this deep? Filled you like this?”

She couldn’t answer—her mouth open, moans torn from her throat—until suddenly, his hand left her clit.

A moment later, something thick and rough looped around her neck and tugged her back.

A godsdamned pool noodle.

He’d wrapped it around her throat, using it to pull her flush against him, her cunt still swallowing every inch of him. He shut her legs tight together while his thighs spread wide, and she felt his entire body shudder as the new grip choked his cock. 

“ Fuck , Pansy. I’m going to ruin this greedy little cunt for anyone else. You hear me? I won’t stop until you’ve come so hard you forget anyone else ever touched you. Because from now on, you’re mine. Not his. Not in any way that will ever fucking matter.”

She tried to reply, to agree, but the pressure on her throat and the relentless rhythm of his cock left her speechless.

Ron leaned back, tightening the pool noodle and changing the angle again. His hips slammed up into her with punishing force, slapping against her arse again and again. His hand returned to her clit, and her world started to fracture. 

“Please—please—please,” she whimpered, as pleasure overwhelmed her, threatening to devour her whole, to burn her alive. “Gods, please.”

The noodle dropped away, and Ron’s hand tangled in her hair, jerking her head back to rest on his shoulder.

“Let them hear you,” he rasped. “But if you want to come, you scream my name.”

“Ron—” she choked, and then it hit.

Pansy’s climax ripped through her. Stars dotted her vision, and her entire body shook as she screamed his name again. Her cunt clenched around him like a fist, and Ron groaned, hips jerking as he spilled inside her, filling her as promised with his hot seed. Still, he moved, shallow thrusts working his come even deeper, in an effort to mark her entirely from the inside out. Finally, he pulled out, and she whimpered as his spend dripped down her thigh.

With a contented sigh, he spun her in his lap so that Pansy’s legs straddled his hips, and kissed her like claiming her cunt hadn’t been enough—like he needed her breath, her heartbeat, her everything .

Pansy kissed him back, helpless to do anything else, until they were both gasping for air. 

They stayed tangled like that for a long moment, her thighs trembling around his hips, her chest pressed against his while they gasped in tandem. His arms wrapped tightly around her, as if holding her together would stop whatever was about to break loose between them.

Pansy turned her face into his neck. Not kissing—just breathing. Taking in the sharp salt of sweat and chlorine, the faint remnants of his cologne, the earthy warmth of him underneath.

Her fingers curled at his shoulders in an effort to steady herself. She didn’t know when she’d started to shake.

Ron noticed.

His hand cradled the back of her head, threading through her hair with a gentleness so at odds with what he’d just done to her. “You alright?”

She nodded against him, but the lie didn’t hold. “I don’t know what that was,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “That didn’t feel like—like just fucking.”

Ron stilled, his jaw flexing against her temple.

“No,” he admitted roughly. “It didn’t.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy with everything that hadn’t been said.

“You meant it,” she breathed, lifting her head, meeting his eyes. “What you said… about me being yours.”

His expression twisted, like he wanted to take it back and couldn’t. “I did.”

“Ron…” she whispered, but she didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know how to finish a sentence that felt like a drop-off into something dangerous.

How does one fix a self-fulfilling prophecy?

He cupped her face. “You don’t have to say anything right now. Just—don’t pretend you didn’t feel it too.”

Her throat tightened. The intimacy of it, the heat still thrumming beneath her skin, the possessive edge of his voice—it all hit too deep. Too fast.

“I did,” she confessed softly. “I just don’t know what to do with it.”

He kissed her again, slower this time. Like he wasn’t just claiming her—but offering her a way back to herself.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised against her lips. “Even if it’s a mess. I’ll be there.”

And for the first time, Pansy let herself believe a man.

Even if everything else fell apart, this moment had been real.

“Besides,” Ron murmured, brushing his lips against her hairline, “I still need to teach you how to swim.”

Pansy nodded but said nothing, resting her head against his chest. Content—for now—to sink a little deeper into this stolen moment. She knew these moments were borrowed, fragile things, destined to gather like storm clouds on the horizon. Her heart beat like thunder, warning of rough seas ahead.

But a quieter voice within her—small, but stubborn—whispered that beyond the dark skies and choppy waters, something waited. Something worth weathering the storm.

And as Ron’s chest rose and fell in a steady, grounding rhythm beneath her ear, it reminded her of gentle waves lapping the shore.

She could have solid ground.

He could be her solid ground.

Pansy only needed to swim toward it.

“I’d like that,” she whispered.