Work Text:
“Jokes on you, Teddy. Your cute party trick won’t work when all I want in life is absolute power and world domination.”
“We’ll see, Pans. We’ll see.”
Pansy stood in the dark, musty confines of the magically enchanted wardrobe, tapping her off-the-walk Phiandora pumps. (This season's design had been enchanted to click menacingly or glide silently depending on the wearer’s mood — Pansy quite liked how hers always, always clicked.)
She sighed, arms folded with twitchy, manicured fingers against each elbow.
How long was she meant to wait and see what magical desires Theodore had sauced up for her?
How would she even know when the vision started?
He hadn’t exactly given her directions before handing her a mysterious potion, thumping her on the back and shoving her in the wardrobe, shouting: BOTTOMS UP, PARKS!
She frowned and let her head thunk against the back of the shabby closet. She would only suffer a few more moments of this utter indignity before stepping out with a practised smirk, grabbing Theo’s chin and telling him he was such a good boy for trying, maybe next time.
She heard some shuffling outside and Theo’s muffled enthusiasm as he likely got another unsuspecting victim to down a vial of his mystery concoction.
Fuck this.
She’d suffered enough today — playing elf to Neville-fucking-Longbottom’s Santa for the two Granger-Malfoy and endless Weasley children. The green velvet costume dress was itchy and tight, her face hurt from fake smiling, and she was exhausted from pretending not to notice Longbottom’s large hands whenever he reached to lift one of the kiddos into his lap, or his forearms when he got hot and pushed up the sleeves of his costume suit, or his sparkling eyes as he indulged the children endlessly, never breaking character for even a moment…
All that to say, a bitch was tired.
Tired of friendliness, tired of velvet, and especially tired of good-for-nothing men who were so sure of themselves that they never even spared her a passing glance.
A bitch wanted to go home.
Pansy stood up straight then, having decided she would, in fact, not tolerate this charade any longer, and pressed the wardrobe door open.
Moving purposefully and with as little shame as she could muster, she stalked towards Theo, who held his arms open ingratiatingly.
“Pans! You’re supposed to stay in for seven minutes! Let the potion marinate.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
Pansy scoffed and rolled her eyes. “That’s assuming the potion even worked in the first place, you oversized pygmy puff.”
“Hey, Harry loves it when I wear this sweater.” He pouted, looking down at his pink wool monstrosity. The words 'I’m a Ho, Ho, Ho' were cable knit in purple yarn across the front.
“I’m sure,” she said flatly, leaning in to leave a parting kiss on Theo’s cheek. He reciprocated, and she thought she was finally, blessedly, free of all this goddamn Christmas cheer. But as she turned to leave, he grabbed her arm.
“Oh, Pans! Don’t leave yet! I promised Har I’d get a picture of you and Neville in your adorable costumes!”
It took all thirteen years of Pansy’s etiquette training not to stomp her foot.
“You couldn’t have done this while we were actually performing for the hellspawn earlier?”
“Ah, but I was caught up in the magic of it all,” Theo said, touching a hand to his heart and waving his drink around in his free hand. “Just one, love? Pretty please? I promise to never ever accidentally have sex in your bed again.”
She looked sharply at him. He batted his eyelashes.
She huffed, defeated by the animated and disgustingly charismatic face of one of her oldest friends. She shooed one hand lazily in front of her as if to say ‘Go on, then,’ and Theo beamed.
“Great! Harry will be thrilled — I think I just saw him over — OI! SHLONGBOTTOM!”
“Ugh, seriously Theo?”
“What? It’s a compliment! Everyone knows Longbottoms got a massive — ”
Pansy slapped her hand over Theo’s mouth and forced a smile as she frog-marched him over to where Neville was sitting.
He was near the fifteen-foot, precariously-tilted Christmas Tree, sitting on an oversized, absurdly baroque chair. It looked oddly like a throne, and in it a bizarre yet powerful king; Neville with his tree-trunk legs spread wide, draped in red velour, a cigar in one hand.
Pansy felt a bit jittery as she approached this boulder of a man for the — hopefully — final time tonight.
She wasn’t sure how much longer she could take his stoic disinterest.
“Hello, Neville. Nice to see you again, you’re still looking full of Christmas cheer, so — my insufferable, yet non-refundable best friend here says he owes one of you Gryffindor lot a photo of us playing Father Christmas. Would you mind terribly?” she said, her words dripping in scornful honey and hissing sharply through her still-gritted teeth.
Theo mumbled from under her hand, and she released him.
Neville eyed them, humour dancing in his eyes.
“Where is Harry tonight anyway? It’s not like him to miss.”
Theo gasped and pressed a backward palm to his forehead as if falling faint at the thought.
“My dear Mr Potter is off treating with orphans tonight, I’m afraid. Spreading the magic of Christmas and all that. Absolute heart of a lion, that one.”
Neville nodded sagely. “Mmm, the orphans. Yes, I remember hearing something about that.”
“So…” Theo said, righting himself and getting back to business. “Whatd’ya say, Daddy Claus? Can you turn it back on for one photo? Or maybe a few?”
Neville finished a puff from his cigar. He moved with careful deliberateness, tapping the end of his spiff off the side of the chair’s armrest.
Merlin…his fingers were as large as the cigar.
Pansy felt her mouth dry and her lips stick to her front teeth as she watched him tap tap the ashes off the end, vanishing the rest.
He turned his attention back to them and waved his hand forward. “C’mere love,” he said, looking directly into Pansy’s eyes for the first time all day.
Her breath went shallow and her vision tunnelled under his unrelenting gaze; he had her trapped like a bug on a pinboard.
He lifted an eyebrow and laughed softly. He brought a massive hand to his thigh, patting it. “Come sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what you want.”
Oh gods.
“That’s the spirit!” Theo roared, taking out his wand and summoning a giant muggle camera. It flew over the heads of party-goers who ducked, shrieked, and swore upon the host of the party as they spilt their drinks or stumbled into the bosoms of their decidedly…not-wives.
Neville was still looking at her.
How could he just sit there like that with his hand beckoning her to his lap and not even flutter an eyelid?
“I’m allergic to fake beards,” she said noncommittally, pursing her lips and looking sideways at Theo.
“Oh, don’t bother with the hat and beard, Longbottom — “ Theo said jovially and put his hand over his mouth in a mock whisper, “ — we don’t want anything covering up that ugly mug, now do we?”
Pansy took this as her opening.
“Ignore Theo,” she said, rolling her eyes and walking to the chair Neville was sitting in. “He has terrible eyesight.”
Neville barely had to tilt his head to look at her now that she was standing right in front of him.
“Is that so?” he said as his blue eyes swept over Pansy’s petite form – her proud shoulders, sharp and demanding out of the wide-neck costume dress, her soft, feminine curves – back to her face. She jutted her chin a bit defensively, prickling under his assessment. He brushed the thumb of his free hand over his lip and hummed low in his throat. “Well… good thing I don’t.”
Pansy felt the blood drain from her face, flushing her neck and chest and pooling further…much further down.
The cocky prat hadn’t looked at her once the entire evening, and now he wanted to flirt? Now that she was tired and cranky?
“Alright Santa’s Little Helper! Climb up on Ol’ Saint Nick, atta girl,” Theo continued behind her.
Neville held out the hand on his lap to her, and she took it demurely as he guided her to perch on his knee.
Taking care to ensure there was no possibility of an upskirt, Pansy settled onto his large thigh as easily as she would a bench. She turned to look at Theo for further guidance when she felt Neville’s hot breath against her ear.
“Are you…?” he asked, leaning forward and splaying a hand above her knee, keeping her anchored on his one leg. “…Santa’s little helper?”
“Only when I feel like it,” she snapped under her breath. Neville chuckled, and she could feel the rumbling, deep sound where her shoulder and torso were pressed against him.
Pansy gave the camera a sly grin as Theo took the first photo. She was dimly aware of him barking raucous commands at them to keep posing, but her mind was dominated by the large, firm grip inching slowly, but demonstrably higher, on her thigh with every adjustment they made.
Theo paused to look at the pictures on the digital screen of the camera for a moment, and Neville leaned into her once again.
“And do you… ‘feel like it’… right now?” His fingers were dangerously close to the fur trim on the bottom of the dress.
Pansy felt a jolt of excitement course through her — yes, he was definitely flirting. She knew if she just let go and fell into her nature, her body and brain would know exactly how to commandeer and encourage his advances.
Despite her rush of satisfaction at having gained another pair of hungry eyes, something nibbled at the back of her mind.
What had the fucking tosser been holding out on her for? She was nothing but cordial and, frankly, oozing sensuality all day. Men loved seeing women pander to other people’s kids. It called to their instinctual prerogative, or whatever. Made them stir in their…biological imperatives.
Yet this man had looked the other way, barely addressed her, and had certainly given no indication that he was interested or seeking her proximity in any way.
Pansy set her jaw, placed her hand coyly on the front of his massive red suit jacket, and pressed her lips into a pout that she knew could draw the attention of both men and women in her near vicinity.
“Oh…” she tsked with faux regret, “I’m afraid I’ve already finished my shift. You just missed me.”
Despite her nose being inches from his jaw, she found she couldn’t look at him, casting her eyes sideways to monitor Theo’s awareness of her little game of cat and lizard instead.
At her response, Neville chucked again, but with an edge of something darker — less jovial, more predatory.
“A snake you may be, little flower, but I didn’t take you for a liar.”
Suddenly, before Pansy could assess the change in his demeanour, he released his grip on her leg and brought a flat palm against her inner thigh with a sharp, stinging thwap. Her leg fell open at this unexpected physical rebuke, making her straddle one of his legs between hers.
She gasped but swallowed it quickly, careful not to draw Theo’s attention. She couldn’t help it — she tilted her chin up to look at Neville. She was abruptly unsure of her position in this wizard’s duel, and needed to reassess.
Neville was looking at her with his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, but his pupils — they were blown so wide she could almost see her reflection in them. The tension in his face was pulling one of his cheeks tighter than the other, tilting his eyes just slightly and giving him the appearance of wolfish calculation.
Then, before she could tear her eyes away, he parted his lips and ran his tongue briefly over his top teeth, the light from … somewhere (Theo’s camera? Gods, was Theo looking at them right now? Was anyone looking at them right now?) glinting off his teeth. He grinned at her in a way that made her heart beat palpably in her chest and throat. It wasn’t just desire, though that was there, but rather the feeling that she had walked into a trap; become stuck in the clutches of a beast she grossly underestimated.
“If you didn’t feel like being Santa’s —”
He emphasized his words with less intense smack to her other thigh, jostling her legs further apart on his lap;
“— little —”
Another smack;
“—helper—”
He paused his short tirade against her sensitive skin by sliding his other knee further underneath and between her, spreading her wider across his lap.
Pansy gasped when she felt a sudden awareness of the pounding ache between her legs, and rapidly cooling moisture slick against her thighs, almost as if she were directly exposed to the air. She fell forward, her hands grasping both his knees and tried to adjust her skirt in mortification when she realised —
“…Then why aren't you wearing any knickers?”
Pansy sucked in a breath, her vision swimming in sudden mortification and lurid excitement. She could have sworn she wore knickers today because she hadn’t anticipated doing anything sexy with anyone except her own bed at the end of the night. Nevertheless, she could feel the cool air prickling her most sensitive skin, and she knew he was right.
“I — I don’t know.” Her voice caught in her throat with equal parts arousal and fear. She was not used to being so off her guard.
Neville made a long, slow hum in his throat and sat back against his seat, shifting her slightly on his lap and against his chest.
“I know you don’t. I’ve been watching you, Pansy. You don’t know what you want. I think…” He reached his hand around to her front, fingers grazing over her straddling thighs. “… I think you need someone who can take you in hand; someone who can tell you what you want.”
Pansy bristled at his casual arrogance.
This, she was used to.
She scoffed and pushed herself to stand, turning just slightly to look dismissively at him over her shoulder.
“Oh, and that’s you, is it, Mr Claus? Don't forget, I knew you at school, I knew your reputation. What do you know about what I want?”
His eyes dragged over her — from her slim ankles, adorned with little green leather straps from her pumps, up her sheer stockinged calves and knees, to her velvet trimmed pear bottom, over her satin snatched waist, across her not-unimpressive-cleavage, until he finally met her eyes.
His were dark and his brow was pinched in displeasure. He smoothed a gloved hand over his massive thigh.
“Sit. Back. Down.”
His tone was unmistakable. It was not a request, it was not a plucky flirt — it was a command.
And she felt it all the way in her cunt.
Damn him.
She was being outplayed. By a bloody Gryffindor, no less.
She rolled her eyes and made to tap her foot in frustration, but before it could make contact with the floor, Neville, reaching out with suspiciously fast reflexes, caught her by the back of the knee and lifted her petulant foot onto the edge of his chair.
He took in their new posture with a serious expression. Though his face remained rather hard and stern, his right hand let go of her ankle with tender, almost reverence, and began touching her softly. With just his middle finger, he drew a slow line up the back of her hitched calf, tickling behind her knee with the lightest pressure, and then slowly, lasciviously drifting up the back seam of her stocking to the garter right below the hem of her skirt.
Her eyes darted around briefly to see if they were being watched. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Theo starting to wrangle a group together by the long dining room table. He was hollering something about Corsair's Gambit, a card game she remembered the boys playing late into the night in the Slytherin common room once they were old enough to bet with secrets and money from their fathers’ vaults.
Neville’s gloved fingers were now drifting across the underside of her lifted thigh, right where the line of her knickers would have been if they hadn’t mysteriously disappeared (a final ‘ha-ha’ from Theo after making her think his fantasy cupboard would work? Stealing her knickers on the way out?)
The heat tingling through her body from such a simple touch had her clenching her fists at her side. She had never known that the skin where her thighs met her arse was such an erogenous zone.
“Wha —”
“Pans —”
She flushed with embarrassment as they both started talking at the same time — each cutting off their words as soon as the other started to speak. They stared for a moment, and in the tense silence, an electric intensity sparked between them, buzzing out the sounds from the rest of the party.
“ — Daddy Claus!” Theo sang, holding court near the table. Neville immediately dropped his hand to a more socially acceptable position below her knee, and Pansy whipped her head towards her insane, good-for-nothing, cock-blocking —
“Come get cosy over here instead! I’ll deal you in!”
Neville laughed, a deep rumble held behind closed lips that had rippled through her all afternoon, and gently lifted her leg to place it back on the ground in front of him. He stood then, crowding her and demonstrating just how tall and broad he was – from this proximity, she couldn’t even see over the top of his shoulders.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” Pansy said, stepping back to peer up at him sceptically. “Ever played Corsairs Gambit with a bunch of Slytherins?”
Neville just placed his hand on her lower back - Merlin, were his fingertips touching the other side of her waist? - and turned them both toward Theo’s table. “No. But I think I’ll be just fine.”
“Oh?” Pansy said, realising that she was letting herself be led — by a man, no less — and didn’t feel like putting up much of a fight. There was a kind of…relief in the simplicity of following his confident direction instead of having to socially engineer her next move to ensure her place of status and control amongst the gathered.
“Mhmm,” Neville affirmed, pulling out one seat at the table and nodding in greeting towards the other players. He sat, placing Pansy in his lap with the firm one-handed grasp on her waist (Goddam Godric, Galfrey, and Grindelwald — his hands really were huge). “Want to know why?”
Smoothing her skirt back over her thighs and trying to act like she was just as much in control of the situation as he was, she turned her chin slightly to the side to give him more of her ear. He took her invitation, leaning forward to speak closely to her while pulling her further on his lap so that her back was pressed against his chest.
“Because I…have a snake in the grass, I intend to use her.”
Pansy narrowed her eyes and frowned, trying to ignore the warmth dripping down her spine from where his voice had caressed her behind the ear.
She had covertly sat on dozens of men’s laps, coyly taking control of them with a few well-timed, expert wiggles and rolls of her hips, all in the name of getting what she wanted.
But what was it that she wanted?
Earlier it had been his attention, she supposed. But it was different now.
Now, she felt like a voyeur to her own seduction — watching vapidly from the corner as everything she knew about sexual dominance was undermined by a few short words and physical manipulations by Neville Longbottom, dressed up as the muggle’s Santa Claus.
She couldn’t fathom what she wanted, because thirty seconds ago, she hadn’t even known she would be sitting at this table with him.
C’mon Parks. Men are simple, even if you aren’t.
“Welcome one and all!” Theo interrupted her musings with a roar, clapping and opening his arms to the table of players. “I invite you, if you dare, to take the Corsair's Gambit.” Light shone off the sharp teeth of his feline smile as he took in his audience — ever the showman. “I trust you all know the terms?”
Affirmative grumbles rolled in from across the table while Theo waved his wand and stacks of betting chips appeared in the middle of the table, called the Corsair’s Chest.
Neville made no move to reach for any chips. Instead, he continued to sit stoically, one hand wrapped around her waist, holding her to him.
Pansy fidgeted, considering reaching for his chips herself, and wiggled her hips just slightly against him in a fit of anxious energy.
No matter. Once she had him hot, hard, and heavy against her, she would be better prepared to anticipate what came next; what he might want from her. Maybe just a few more slow rolls —
Neville’s free hand, which had been resting so casually against his other thigh, suddenly plunged under her skirt to grab at the crease at the top of her thigh, holding her still.
“None of that, little flower. Now, be Santa's good helper and grab our wager,” he said, his breath hot on the back of her neck.
Annoyed, Pansy reached forward to slide the (barely) dignified starting bet of fifty galleon chips from the centre chest and rolled her eyes, splitting the chips into five equal stacks. She was also exceedingly conscious of his large fingers, which hadn’t moved from where they were pressing against the outer lips of her cunt. She tried to pass off another shift of her hips as she reached for one more chip in the centre — if she could only get his knuckles a little closer to —
He gave one quick smack over her mound, hand still under her skirt, having clearly caught on to what she was doing.
Damn him. He was smarter than the average cock.
She suppressed a frustrated growl, knowing that her tablemates couldn’t see what was happening below the ledge of the table and her skirt. And she wanted to keep it that way.
“Naughty. You just can’t help yourself, can you? So used to…taking what you want.” He slid the hand that had rebuked her even further downward, over her curls into her slit.
Her already-slick labia wrapped, warm and puffy, around his two fingers like a french kiss.
At first, he didn’t move, and neither did she — too stunned to react. She made to turn her head to apologise and stand, thinking it had to have been some kind of rather mortifying mistake — he hadn’t actually meant to touch her cunt, had he? — when he slid his fingers once, then twice over her slit to her entrance. The leather of his gloves moved embarrassingly easily through the bumps and ridges of her cunt, which was now absolutely dripping in sudden and, frankly unacceptable, arousal. His fingers eventually ghosted over her clit, and he started to circle it with wide, indirect pressure.
Oh.
She gasped, tensing her thighs involuntarily in an attempt to keep his finger pressed directly on that sweetest spot.
She heard a small hum of approval vibrate from his chest into her back as he continued his manual explorations. He spoke softly to her again, and Pansy had the strangely exhilarating feeling that they must look like they were a friendly couple merely strategizing for the game.
“Poor little Pansy,” he said, continuing slow, barely-there circles with his thumb, and pressing his other fingers further, deeper between her legs. “...so used to taking what she wants that she doesn’t notice what people give.” Shallowly, he pressed a finger into her. She flexed her hands on the table, trying to dispel the sudden intensity.
How was he doing this?
She had been finger-blasted by meaty brutes before. Normally she needed it deep, hard, and fast in order to even pretend to get off from it.
She blinked and muffled a sharp cough, trying to clear her head and cover up the moan she knew would escape if he pressed in any further.
As if he could read her thoughts, he pressed his leather-clad middle finger into her as far as it could go.
The feeling was….exquisite. The cool, smooth leather of his gloved palm and thumb rocked subtly against her clit while his longest finger reached inside her ever so slowly, exploring her, circling her width, searching for the hidden place that would make her sing.
She couldn’t believe this was happening. She hadn’t even spoken to this man outside of their peripheral friend group, and now he was knuckle deep in her cunt at a table of sacred twenty-eight second sons and sycophants.
“Mmm…you are just a tiny thing, aren’t you?” he said quietly, ducking his face to nudge her earlobe with the tip of his nose.
Pansy was breathing heavily now, a delicious numbness working its way down her legs from where Neville was brazenly, publicly finger-fucking her. She leaned forward with one arm and pressed her elbow on the edge of the table, the other reaching for the hem of her skirt and gripping it with white knuckles. She numbly realized she had absolutely no idea what was happening in the game around them. She snapped her head to look at Theo, who — blessedly — was still sharing the rules.
“...your goal is to draw a more valuable hand than your naughty pirate dealer, le moi, and trick everyone else at the table into betting against you. The more the odds are stacked against you, the larger your payout will be. Or as my people call it, the booty. “ Theo waggled his eyebrows mischievously at the players around the table. Pansy had heard this particular Nott opening number so many times she could recite it in her sleep, and was relieved when he didn’t call on her to play off of him. She wasn’t sure she could even speak.
As the other players started to count out their initial wagers, Theo was already dealing out the Corsair’s hand. He made brief eye contact as he dealt her and Neville one, then two tiles, observing her uncharacteristic flush. He raised an eyebrow, looking back at Neville. Pansy lifted the arm she had on the table and gave him a two-finger salute.
Neville took the opportunity to do the same under her skirt.
She groaned at the stretch of his two largest fingers pressing inside of her as he thrust them experimentally into her. She played it off as a vocal disappointment over their newly dealt hand, which she picked up and pretended to study angrily.
But it seemed Neville wasn’t ready to play the card game yet. With fingers now snug and motionless in her cunt, he whispered, “I’m going to give you this one chance to walk away.” His other hand pulled her hips even closer against him in a bruising grip. “Otherwise… you, your body, and its pleasure, are mine until the end of this game. You’re going to squeeze me once for no, twice for yes. Do you understand?”
Pansy gulped.
Salazar’s Ancient Taint.
She had never felt so unsure of her next move. It was mortifying. It was like dropping from a tailspin on the back of a broom. Her heart was pounding in her throat and her cunt. She nearly felt faint from how breathless she had become simply under a few unexpected touches.
But despite the rush and the dizzying uncertainty, it almost felt….good. Like she was flying unassisted — not free-falling necessarily, just… free.
She reached out with one hand to grab him above his thick knee, stabilising herself. Though her hand was trembling, she squeezed him twice in quick succession. Her eyes scanned around as Theo engaged the table’s occupants in the different values of their possible hands.
Neville laughed under his breath, and it was a dark, foreboding thing. “No, no…not with your hand,” he said, and adjusted ever so slightly, shifting where they were connected. “You know where I want to feel you squeeze.” She felt him press someplace new inside her and her entire abdomen quivered in delicious pressure. “I’ll only ask you once more — do you understand?”
Closing her eyes, she tried to push her awareness inward. She tensed her legs and, with her inner muscles, clamped down on his thick fingers. It made her shutter, but she rushed to do it again, lest he think she was saying no.
“And do I have your consent for the remainder of the game?”
Almost too quickly, she squeezed him twice again, her walls fluttering around him after the second time as if crying out an encore of ‘yes, yes, please fucking yessssssss…’
There was nothing for it. Theo must have poured some sort of lust concoction into the drinks. She hadn’t gotten her knickers soaked over a man’s attention since she was a teenager — and she wasn’t even bloody wearing any.
“Good girl,” he murmured behind her. “I’m very pleased with you, Pansy.”
She blushed again, feeling a fresh wave of arousal glide over his fingers. She touched the back of her hand to her forehead gingerly and fidgeted with the betting chips in front of her.
Neville, still holding his hand against—and in—her, leaned back and gestured to the table with his free hand.
“So, what do we do first?”
“W — Well,” she cleared her throat slightly, trying to maintain a sultry feminine husk. The action did something funny to where they were connected, and she twitched and shuttered again in his lap. “It’s the betting round. We look at our tiles, and we can…we can call, still, or push.”
“Mmmm…” Neville murmured as other players started calling out their antes. He took a deep breath, looking over Pansy’s shoulder at the combination of runes they were given. They had two Laguz runes, representing the element of water, in two and seven. “I think we should push, don’t you think?”
Pansy was about to baulk at such an absurd suggestion — this was one of the worst opening hands one could possibly be dealt — and he wanted to raise the bet? How Gryffindor’s made it through seven years without absolutely thumping themselves to death like cave muggles was beyond her — when he pulled his two fingers all the way out from her dripping cunt.
“Push,” he said as he plunged his fingers back into her, “Right, Pansy?”
She found herself shaking her head in agreement while she warred with herself internally. It was one thing to give in to pleasure, it was another wholly different thing to lose Corsair’s Gambit in front of a bunch of Slytherin alumni.
Adrien Pucey, the player closest to them on the cross corner of the table, called the bet, which had been increased twice since the Corsair's hand was dealt. The table all turned their eyes on Pansy to hear what their bet would be.
In the end, Pansy reasoned to herself, no one could ever say she wasn’t a greedy, ambitious bastard through and through. She pressed her two tiles forward towards the chest, a sign of folding the round.
“Still.”
Theo, unphased, moved the game along and continued to deal cards for the viewable hand, jibbing and antagonizing the players who were still in the game. Neville, however, growled behind her in clear displeasure. Ripping it from between her legs, wrapped his hand around her throat. She gasped, tilting her chin upwards instinctively even though she knew he wouldn’t actually squeeze her airway….would he?
She felt her own essence, slimy against her pulse point, and smelled the bitter tang of her arousal which had coated the white leather across most of his hand. With his hold on her neck, he yanked her back so that her ear was against his mouth. With him caging her in this way, she couldn’t even try to move her head side to side to see what kind of attention they were drawing — or even what his face looked like.
“I thought we made a deal, little snake…this body is mine until the end of the game.”
She sat stubbornly silent, training her features to look regal and dispassionate despite her physically compromised situation.
He squeezed her throat tighter in her hesitation.
She nodded clumsily, her chin bumping against his fingers.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, loosening his grip. “That means if I say still, we still. When I say push, we push. Is that clear?”
Pansy swallowed audibly, the muscles in her neck flexing against his large palm.
How would it feel to play Corsair’s Gambit and not have to think at all about her next move?
To not have to hold the count of runic tokens in her head, strategize bluffing patterns, or set up contingency plans against the dealer’s use of the catastrophic Twelve of Fates?
How would it feel to just…feel?
“Yes,” she said quietly after a moment’s silence, her voice far more strained than she would have liked.
“Yes, what?” he said gruffly, still obviously irritated with her defiance.
“Yes…sir.”
“Good girl. Now let’s see…” He removed his hand from her throat. “Santa’s helper must not have been distracted enough with his two fingers stuffing her tiny little hole. Still had room in her naughty, cunning mind to try and outwit our tablemates. She must need more then, yeah?” Using both hands and a death grip on her hips, he lifted her off his lap into a standing position. “Well, Santa needs help with his next bet. Can you grab it for us?”
Indeed, Pansy found that the first round was now complete; some distant cousin of a Warrenton hooted raucously as he pulled a pile of chips towards him. She hadn’t even seen what the winning hand was.
Weak-kneed and disoriented, she leaned forward across the table to reach for their next stack of chips for the round’s ante. Theo, having never developed intellectually past the age of twelve apparently, flicked his hand in front of her, magically pulling the chips out of her grasp. This, of course, meant she had to reach farther and lean down further to pull the ante back.
“Fuck off, Theo!” she snapped. He looked taken aback by her sudden hostility. She cringed internally at her lack of subtlety.
Steady on, Parks. Don’t let them know how rattled you are.
Instead, she smirked, batting her eyes in his direction. “Idiot,” she added fondly, and his face relaxed again.
Neville, on the other hand, was up to something behind her. She felt the back of his hands brushing against her arse and his thighs shifting slightly as she made to sit back down on his lap, having secured their new set of chips.
Before she could fully shift to a seated position, she felt something nudging between her legs, too big to press fully into her slit. It was hot against her already fevered skin and fleshier than his fingers had been. When it pressed, large and bulbous and hard against her entrance, she froze — her hand slipping and knocking over a few piles of their chips.
It felt like the entire table turned to look at them as — what could only be — his raging erection pressed into her from behind.
“Relax, flower…” Neville whispered as, one at a time, the onlookers went back to examining their newly dealt hands.
Pansy’s thighs were shaking. She couldn’t properly sit because his cock couldn’t even press into her all the way.
What if it didn’t fit?
“It’ll fit. You just have to relax and take it. Unclench your thighs, sweetness. You’re already so wet for it, you just have to let…me….in.” His voice seemed to break slightly as he finished taking her all the way — the only sign that he was affected at all by their under-skirt tryst.
Pansy, panting again and surely by now, also sweating, tried to do as he said. She was already starting to make more of a scene than she wanted, and standing in a half-crouch would only make things worse.
She shifted her body weight back on her heels and put her hands on either side of her thighs, using his legs as support. Gently, almost carefully, she relaxed her legs enough to seat him completely inside her.
“Oh Merlin,” she gasped as her walls adjusted to his massive size. She could feel the warm pleasure pulsing through her as she sank him inch by inch inside of her until he bottomed out.
While she shifted slightly to make herself more comfortable while impaled on his lap, Neville moved one hand to the table to flick the corner of his tiles and review his hand. His other hand rested possessively over the velvet covering her navel, idly brushing his large fingers around as if innocently stroking her belly.
She bit her lower lip and swallowed a moan that threatened to escape when she felt his cock pulse twice inside her tight walls.
There really was nowhere for him to go. He was huge, filling her perfectly, almost too much, so when he flexed his cock or pulsed into her, she felt it in places that had never been touched before.
She spasmed around him, the heat of her pleasure travelling from the base of her spine to the back of her neck. She shook her head to try and clear it, but she had already missed the first round of bets.
Behind her, she heard Neville raise their bet before he encouraged Pansy to push a small stack of tokens forward to the Corsair’s chest.
Any move she made redoubled the stretch and pressure of his cock inside her, and made her want to cry out. It was so consuming and distracting that it took literally all of her concentration to even perform such a simple action.
She couldn’t tally the probabilities of certain hands, couldn’t scan her competitors for bluffing body language, she couldn’t even really hold it in her mind what their own hand looked like. She could only push her fingers numbly against the smooth green ridges of the betting tokens and try to press them forward without moving her core or hips even a millimetre in any direction.
“Fuck, you’re so tight around me, Pansy. I can feel every single move you make.”
Pansy nodded her head, and this small movement pressed him further against her front wall and she gasped, sure that spittle was forming between her lips. She couldn’t even remember to swallow.
As the round went on, it felt almost …comforting to feel so blissfully disconnected from the table around her. She was full and safe in his lap while the other players furrowed their brows and angsted over their hands, their gold, or their neighbors' quiet provocation about their bloody untouchable pureblood ancestors.
Neville, for his part, continued to appear unphased; fingers tapping along her lower stomach to the festive warble of Celestine Warbeck or laughing quietly at a snide remark from Theo.
It was the most delicious torture she had ever gone through in her life.
As the players raised their bets and Theo revealed more of the dealer’s hand, Neville spoke to her again, pulling her back from the blissed-out place her mind had drifted.
“Just relax…breathe for me,” he cooed softly, running a hand up and down her inner thigh in a placating motion. His breath tickled her as his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “...and when we win, I promise I’ll fuck you properly. Until then, you’ll stay still and keep my cock warm. How does that sound?”
Having learned her lesson from her previous head nod, she instead murmured her soft assent, refusing to let out even the smallest cry or movement. Even so, her entire body was begging her to move, to create friction; to soothe the aching burn between and inside her.
She felt his hands slowly drift towards her centre, drawing soft leather patterns on the inside of her thighs with the slick that continued to escape from her.
The warmth of his touch and the crunchy soft texture of his velvet costume against her flushed skin almost made her lose her mind while also managing to completely…clear it. Her worries, which continued to mount upon her shoulders the longer she remained unmarried and unheired, were whispers, mere feathers really, as she felt every smallest twitch of his solid cock grounding her.
Pansy couldn’t tell how much time was passing — whether it was seconds or hours. Her muscles ached, her brow was dappled in sweat, and she was sure her lipstick was halfway gone from how much she was licking and biting her own lips to hold back the sounds of her increasing frustration and pleasure.
“It’s our turn to bet again, little flower. Go ahead — choose for us,” Neville whispered in her ear, sounding more out of breath than she had heard him earlier. Pansy looked frantically around the table, trying to reassess their hand; she clearly hadn’t been paying attention — what was he playing at?
As she lifted their tiles and tried to study the Corsair’s public hand to decide their next move, he snuck one of the hands that was on her thigh higher under her skirt to where they were connected, and brushed over her clit in a few quick circles.
The electricity that shot through her nearly caused her to spill her chips again. With nowhere for her muscles to go, the fluttering of her cunt under the direct stimulation of her clit nearly vibrated back on itself, circling through her nervous system over and over again in some kind of positive feedback loop of torturous arousal.
There was a clearing of a throat from somewhere across the table. “C’mon Longbottom, let’s get on with it. Tell your girl to raise the bet, or fold like you know you should and go snog somewhere.”
“Press!” Pansy blurted, saying the first (and only) thing that came to her mind. She shoved a stack of chips forward, leaned her elbows on the table, and dropped her head in her hands.
A few scoffs and murmurs echoed around the table, but she couldn’t be bothered to care about anything besides the ever-narrowing sensation of pleasure mounting in the deepest parts of her.
Distantly, she was aware of Theo flipping over the final tile for the Corsair’s hand, and the person who had antagonised them earlier whooped, reaching for the bounty in the chest.
Neville, who had stopped touching her briefly enough to regain her ability to focus, took his hand from between her legs and ran it softly over the back of her neck and upper spine, which was exposed in the wide neck of her green costume.
“Tsk, tsk,” he said ominously, the combination of his deadly tone and soft tickle on her neck making her shiver. “You made us lose our hand to a bust. So now, I think, I have to show everybody…yours.”
Before she could respond or think about what would happen next, he gripped the back of her costume and yanked roughly, pulling the sleeves, bodice, and brassiere of her costume down below her breasts.
She squeaked in surprise. Her nipples, which were already betrayingly pink and hard, immediately tightened into sharper peaks with the sudden exposure to the room’s cool air. She lifted her arms instinctively to cover herself, but Neville was already there. He grabbed her upper arms on both sides and wrenched them back, forcing her back to arch and her exposed chest to press forward onto the table. Then he fucked up into her once, twice, three times, and she cried out louder and more hysterically with each one. Then he stilled, releasing her arms, and in a maddening shift of composure, gently guided her into a sitting position against his chest.
Pansy slumped against him, overstimulated and trembling.
She felt a trickle of drool spill from her lips, which were still open in a silent plea for mercy or more — which one, even she didn’t know.
She assumed the entire table was looking at them, staring at her naked tits, adjusting themselves in their trousers at the sounds of her sexual pleasure, but she couldn’t even open her eyes to see.
Neville, soothing her, splayed his hand over her chest and brushed her nipple gently with his thumb. She could only mew brokenly at this new touch.
“Sorry gentlemen, please continue,” Neville said gruffly, covering her chest with both gloved hands. The leather immediately cooled her splotchy red skin and did precious little to bring her back to herself.
She gathered a few breaths, her chest expanding and pressing her nipples into his hands with each one.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured into her ear, his chest vibrating with the edge of his low chuckle. “You are Santa’s good little helper — squeezing and soaking my cock so well. Just a little bit longer, flower. There’s only one more hand. And I don’t think the other players are focusing on their hands anymore thanks to your….beautiful show.”
Pansy couldn’t be sure she would be able to hold on for another hand — she certainly wouldn’t be making any sort of strategic decisions in this state. Her cunt, demanding release, clenched helplessly, her hips ached from the fullness and the frustration of not being able to move as he continued to hold her hostage to her own release. She would do anything to be able to roll her hips and ground herself on his cock. But a small voice in her head knew that would only delay her reward — extending her torture even further.
So instead, she sat there, panting audibly and begging deliriously for Neville to take his hand and finish the game. It felt like she had been sitting on his lap for an eternity and barely a flash of a moment all at the same time.
All around the table, she heard murmurs of “still, still, still” as each player folded their hand until it got to Neville, who called Theo’s wager.
Theo, strangely appearing unaffected and unaware of the sexual deviancy marring his game, flipped over his final tile, revealing an elemental pair — not a strong hand. He cocked an eyebrow, looking at Neville, indicating that he should reveal.
Neville, barking a short laugh, flipped their tiles over to reveal a runic straight.
They won.
Pansy made a strangled sort of sob in her throat, and before Theo could pass the pot their way, Neville swept his large forearm across the table in front of them, sending chips, drinks, and tiles flying in every direction. Then he lifted her bodily, standing up while keeping them connected, and roughly bent her over the table before he began fucking her punishingly fast and hard.
With her bare chest and fingernails scraping over the table, Pansy scrambled for purchase amidst his brutal thrusts, crying out with animalistic wails she had never heard herself make before.
She had never experienced pleasure so singularly. All of her sexual experiences came with long, drawn out manipulations and facades; constant mental arithmancy so she could always be the one who came out on top, always the survivor amongst the fittest.
This, though — this was something else entirely. It involved her entire body — and most stunningly — her thoughts remained vague, fuzzy, and distant. Not intruding at all upon her chase for release.
As the intensity built inside and around her, she knew she was close to having the most shattering orgasm of her life, and it sounded like Neville wasn’t far behind her. He grunted with each pound into her, his grip faltering around the back of her neck and hip as he tried to hold her in place.
“Such a good — fucking — girl… taking my cock so well…. for so long...” he growled over her as he took his hand off her neck and instead used it to hike one of her thighs onto the table, splaying her open as wide as possible for his relentless thrusts. From this angle, his balls slapped heavily against her clit, and it was the final push she needed to send her catapulting over the edge of her orgasm; her control slipping away completely.
The world dissolved around her until all she could feel was the blinding white scream of pleasure. and then everything went dark.
Pansy’s eyes snapped open and she clutched at her chest, panicked that it was still exposed for half the wizarding world to see. Her dress, though a bit askew, was still perfectly in place.
She was sprawled out on the floor, cramped as it may be.
Panting, she sat up, her legs bent and tingling with the sharp pains of coming back to feeling after being stuck underneath her for —
She quickly realised she was still in Theo’s ‘Closet of Cock-mas’ or whatever he was calling it.
How long had she been here?
She hoisted her still barely-feeling legs out in front of her and sat against the back of the closet to sort herself out before she opened the door.
Had it…all been in her mind, or had she somehow actually experienced it?
Her fingers tentatively brushed over her neck from where her hand had been clutching her breast for fear of modesty, and she dragged them lightly over her lips. They seemed normal — a bit sticky with stain and gloss and — she licked them just to be sure — not at all split or bloody.
Eyes widening, she slid a hand between her legs underneath her skirt.
Perfectly respectable and work appropriate knickers covered her fully, and her garters were still in place.
She puffed out a sigh of relief and let her head fall back against the cabinet, making a hollow ‘thunk.’
The sound was satisfying in a way she couldn’t explain, so she did it again, letting a primal groan escape her throat.
How was she going to look anyone in the eye after this? How was she ever going to be able to look at photos of her playing elf tonight and not think of Neville’s —
Bright light sliced across her face in a jagged line. She held up a shaking hand to cover her eyes.
“Well, hello Princess,” Theo said, standing smugly with his arms crossed in the crack of the open cabinet.“That good, huh?” He gestured to where she was sitting, still in what a woman of her stature would consider ‘a heap.’
“Fuck you, Theodore. Help me up,” Pansy snapped, reaching her hand blindly out in front of her.
Theo, ever her gracious dueling dummy, pulled her to a standing position and pretended to dust off her skirt and shoulders.
“So…” he said, more quietly as if he had finally gained some late-onset decorum, “What did you see?”
She sniffed and tucked part of her hostile bob back into place behind her ear.
“I was standing on top of a pile of faceless, silent, extremely well-endowed men, all nude and writhing in hedonistic revelry and despair.”
Theo placed a hand over his sternum and laughed heartily. “They couldn’t have been completely nude, Parks, I’m sure you had a leash on all of them.”
Pansy hummed in response and cocked an eyebrow. “Too true, Theo, too true.”
“Happy Christmas, Teddy. Yes, yes, I love you too. Of course. Yes, I will give them my love. Make sure you take the hangover potion I left you in the morning. Otherwise, I will have to tell Harry you had one too many Hot Toddies. Okay, alright. Love you, you absolute blithering dugbog —” Pansy finished as she finally extricated herself from the sloppily drunken embrace of her life-long friend. She stumbled into Nott Manor’s Floo parlour, beyond ready to leave.
God, she was tired.
There was a short line in the greeting parlour. She stood several paces behind the person in line ahead of her and crossed her arms over her chest, already daydreaming of a midnight soak in her oversized clawfoot tub.
“Floo cool-down taking longer than usual tonight. Must be busy,” a slightly lilting tenor said to her left.
“Pardo–?” she started to say as she turned her head to acknowledge the speaker.
There, sitting on a receiving bench near the back of the parlour, was Neville Longbottom, holding a cigar and looking right at her.
He was still donning his red costume suit, but it had changed form throughout the night; the legs rolled over his large calf muscles, the hat and beard gone (more likely, stolen), and the velvet shirt-coat was splayed open, exposing his broad, darkly-haired chest.
She had been trying to avoid him all night after her mortifying fantasy in the ‘Bugger Boudoir.’ Luckily, she hadn’t seen him. Leave it to her sodden bad luck that she would just nearly make it out of the ancient manor with her dignity before seeing his stupid sexy face.
He had a cigar in one hand, and a formidable sense of deja vu flashed through her as he puffed the smoke out the side of his mouth, eyes continuing to appraise her.
“Mmm,” Pansy responded demurely, crossing one leg conspicuously over the other and ducking her chin to look at him through her eyelashes.
What? Just because she was tired didn’t mean she forgot all sense of propriety.
Neville laughed as if she was behaving exactly as he expected.
“It was decent of you to set this up for the Granger-Malfoy tots,” he said jovially, waving the cigar back and forth between them as if to herald their matching outfits. “They’re lucky to have you.”
Pansy flushed, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. She coughed politely into her shoulder to give herself time to think.
“Well, it’s only thanks to you for responding to Potter’s last-minute rallying cry. Otherwise, we would have had to use Theo, and you can only imagine how that would have worked out…”
Neville laughed again, and she found herself watching as his eyes crinkled alluringly at the side of his face. It almost made her want to laugh too.
Almost.
“Yeah, Nott’s great, but him and kids…”
“Right.” She nodded, shifting her weight briefly on her stilettos, legs still crossed.
She didn’t miss how his gaze was drawn to the way it made her thighs press together.
“Speaking of Nott…” Neville said, taking another puff of his cigar, “I overheard someone saying that his little experiment hadn’t worked for you.”
“Yes, well…I know Theo was so looking forward to learning my lewdest fantasies and holding them over my head for eternity. Pity his magic box failed.”
Neville leveled his stare at her then, and she felt as naked as she had in the fantasy. Somehow she knew he could tell it was a lie.
“That magic worked on a one-hundred and thirty-four-year-old archivist from Belgium. He was telling everyone he had an orgy with the entire roster of Flanders Flames — freaky old chap.”
Pansy pulled a face — she had heard that story through several secondhand sources throughout the night.
“I highly doubt the cabinet didn't ‘work’ on someone as desirous as you, little flower.”
Pansy hissed. They had never exchanged this many words in a row before tonight — why the hell would he call her that unless…
Again, he laughed as if he knew more than he should. He patted his thigh, mirth and…something else…dancing in his dark brown eyes.
“Why don’t you come sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what you really want.”
Oh.
She was so fucked.
Fin.