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Morning Larks	By : Daye Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Harry/Pansy Views: 20745 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter franchise belongs to JKR and not to me. I make no money at all from writing this.

Chapter List
- 1-Morning Larks
- 1
Title: Morning Larks

Pairing: Harry/Pansy

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: ~2,500

Content/Warnings Drunk Sex, Rough sex, non-linear story telling.

Summary: Harry wakes up the morning after and wonders how he could possibly have got that drunk.

Notes: Written for hp-harlequin's Valentine's Day Prompt Fest on Livejournal.

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Sunlight blazed through Harry’s window, and the curtains, being wide open, did nothing to stop it. The sensation was much akin to his eyeballs being doused in acid, and he growled and lifted his hand to shade himself.
His head pounded, an acidic taste burned at the back of his mouth, and he felt sticky with sweat. What the hell had he done last night?
As if in answer to his question, there was a mewling sound, and the bed next to him shifted. Harry somewhat belatedly realised that he was not alone and that not all the warm weight across his chest was his duvet.
There was an arm slung across it. The arm was wrong. For a moment Harry thought that was because it was not slightly tanned and covered with freckles and in fact was smooth and pale, and the fingernails were long and coloured a cliché shade of scarlet instead of unadorned and chopped short to better grip a quaffle.
Then he remembered that any arm would be wrong, and Ginny had left him a month ago. So the question became: Who the hell he had done last night?
Harry started to shift himself out from under the arm, using much the same caution as he might if he had accidentally apparated into the middle of an acromantula nest — and if he had ever done that, it would not have been the highlight of his Auror career, and he would certainly have tried to forget about it as soon as possible.
The woman next to him did not make any further sound nor show much sign that she noticed his presence or lack thereof as Harry’s feet hit the ground and he stumbled away from the bed. He glanced backwards briefly and saw the side of a woman’s head, mostly obscured by a shock of dark hair. Dark hair, pale skin: both narrowed down the list of possibilities. He had not sunk so low as to succumb to Gabrielle Delacour’s long-standing crush on him, for example, nor had any miracle undone that last argument with his ex.
As if in protest at the mental effort of ruling out these suspects, Harry’s head resumed its pounding, and he decided that contemplation of this mystery was going to have to wait until after he’d had a shower or at least some pain killers.
He took a couple of heavy footfalls towards the en-suite bathroom before he realised he was trying to be quiet and tip-toed the rest of the way instead. He yelled as his bare feet stepped on the cool laminated floor of his bathroom, closed and locked the door, and then groped for the light switch in the dark of the windowless room.
The light-bulb flared on but the second shock of the light was not as bad as the first, and Harry stumbled to the mirror.
“Someone had a good time last night,” it drawled at him, and Harry once again cursed letting his former girlfriend having so much say in the décor; stupid magic mirrors.
He splashed water all over his face to try and clear his mirror and then gazed into his reflection. He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin sweaty, and his hair! Somehow someone had made it even worse looking.
The woman’s hands raked through his hair, combing it with her nails and twisting locks around her fingers. Her grip tightened, and their mouths collided in an explosion of taste and frantically active tongues. Her breath flooded over him and tasted like every one of the many alcoholic drinks that they had shared that evening.
The flash of recollection was stunningly intense and yet only covered the briefest fragment of the previous evening. Harry vaguely recalled a long day at work, frequent annoyance about something or other, and his resignation to a long night of drinking — a long night that was still very insistently making itself felt.
His toothbrush lay behind the sink’s tap and Harry quickly gave his teeth a once over with it, getting rid of the worst of the foul taste in his mouth.
He reached up towards the shelf next to the mirror, and as his hand got higher than his head a fresh wave of pain shot out from his shoulder. He growled and snatched the tub of painkillers off the shelf, knocking it into the sink. He glared down at the traitorous shoulder and was very surprised to find that his shoulder and neck were covered in a mottled bruise.
The two of them lay sprawled on the twisted and tangled remains of his duvet, the woman on her back with her legs spread wider than he thought they’d go. The head of his cock was poised, pressed against the glistening wet lips of her cunt.
“Fuck, Potter. Fuck, do it,” the woman growled hoarsely.
He slammed into her, driving his hips forward mercilessly as he humped her, putting all his weight into the thrusts. She howled but briefly, her head lanced out, and her jaws closed around his shoulder. He felt her muffled screams reverberate through him with each hard stroke.
The memory hit him even harder than the first. Not only was the action so much more vivid and crude. The memory of the voice filled his ears. It was such a short phrase, the voice contorted with lust, but even if he hadn’t recognised it, the phrasing was distinct.
“Oh God, no,” Harry groaned. “Not her. Please not her. I can’t have been that drunk.”
He hurriedly unscrewed the top of the tub and shoved a few pills in his mouth. He could hear a stirring back in his bedroom and steeled himself to go back in there. He looked at himself again and realised he was still naked, head to toe. He seized a towel and wrapped it around his waist. Of course, she’d already seen him naked, but she might not remember that. Quickly, trying to get it over with, he pulled open the door and stepped back into the bedroom.
Pansy Parkinson stood completely naked by his wardrobe. She’d pulled both the doors open, and there were a pile of discarded shirts next to her. She held up another one to the light — Harry’s favourite blue crosshatch shirt — and looked it at.
“No, no, not me at all,” she muttered and dropped into the pile with the rest.
Harry’s discreet cough came out more as a sputter of indignation.
“Oh Harry! There you are,” Pansy drawled as she turned her head to see him. “You really should get yourself a better wardrobe, sweetheart. I barely have any choice at all. Oh, I suppose this one will have to do.”
She pulled on a maroon silk dress shirt, which coincidentally happened to be the most expensive thing in the entire wardrobe, and she fastened only a couple of buttons, until it fully covered her lower body while still leaving a long v-shape of flesh exposed.
“Right, now you can start on breakfast while I freshen up.”
And she sauntered right past him and into the bathroom. It all rather took Harry aback. Here he was all hung over and confused, and she was acting like they did this every night or every day or whatever time it was.
“Wait!” Harry said, far too late. “Wait, you don’t even need to use my bathroom. Just apparate back to your own, for heaven’s sake.”
“Sorry Harry, didn’t quite catch that. Just borrowing your toothbrush, okay? I can still taste you.”
Whatever reply Harry might have made was drowned out by the sounds of water gushing out of his taps. Harry slammed his fist on the doors a couple of times and then stopped to listen if it had any effect. The rushing of water continued unabated, but he thought he could hear a clattering underneath the gurgling water, almost as if someone was rummaging through his cupboards.
He sighed deeply and stomped off in search of food. He didn’t think of it so much as doing what Pansy told him to do but more as the never-ending manly search for meat. He walked through the other door off the bedroom and into the part of his flat that combined the living room, dining room, and kitchenette.
Trailing the fingertips of his hand across the back of his sofa as he made his way to the fridge, they snagged on something half way, and Harry glanced down to see a lacy scrap of material lying across the back of the sofa.
Pansy straddled his lap as he sat on the sofa, her head thrown back and showing off the cleavage that the dark lacy bra was making out of her tits, each breath she took causing a visible expansion of flesh. Harry's fingers tugged and tore at the straps until it came free, and he hurled it away in a random direction. Pansy moaned and grinded herself down on his hard-on as his mouth eagerly kissed and sucked at her bared breasts.
Smirking slightly, Harry nudged the bra aside and continued his trek to the kitchen. He started pulling bacon, eggs, and sausages out of his fridge and bread and plates and cutlery out of the cupboards. There was something oddly soothing about cooking up a nice big breakfast; it was a simple enough task for his hungover brain to cope with but still complex enough that it kept his brain thinking about other times. Anyway, it wasn't much to ask. They could have breakfast, find her clothes, and part ways, simple. He was just scooping the resulting breakfast — every part of which could be described as 'fried' — onto plates when Pansy made her appearance.
"Hmm that smells good," she said, helping herself to a plate without asking. "Speaking of smelling good, you certainly like your baths, don't you? There's more scented stuff in there than I have."
She grinned at him and shook her head slightly, casting her gaze quickly across the entire room and sending water droplets flying off the ends of her shoulder-length black hair. Harry winced as the probably still soapy water spattered over the shoulders of the shirt she had stolen.
"I do have quite a few towels, so you could wrap one around your hair if you like," he said, trying to convey mentally that this was not so much a suggestion as an instruction, but of course she was oblivious to even so unsubtle a hint.
"Oh no. It always comes out a mess when I do that," she said, waving off his suggestion with a fork laden with scrambled eggs.
Harry made a noncommittal sort of noise. The causal nonchalance was beginning to grate on him.
"What's got you in a bad mood, Harry?"
"Well, Parkinson, it might just be the fact you're pretending to know me."
"Oh I do know you, though," Pansy grinned toothily again, "quite well after last night."
He shifted uncomfortably, not liking the sound of that at all. He couldn't imagine opening up to Pansy Parkinson. Then again, he couldn't imagine taking her back to his flat and screwing her, but here she was.
“Oh you do, do you?” he said sceptically.
“That’s right, Harry,” Pansy said in indulgent tones. “And I would have thought you might be nicer to the girl you had the best sex of your life with last night.”
He stood by the side of his bed with Pansy on her knees between his legs. Her grey eyes shined in the dim light as she looked up at him. Then her soft, pouty lip wrapped around his cockhead and she sucked hard enough that her cheeks hollowed as she drew a long, ragged moan from deep in his chest. Her head darted down, taking most of his shaft into her mouth before dragging it back slowly, her lips compressed around the shaft so he could feel it. He reached out with his hands to clear her hair away from her face, to caress her head and shoulders, but she knocked them away, increasing the pressure with her lips as well.
When she picked up the pace, the sensations started to overwhelm him. His knees buckled, and he found himself sitting on his mattress. Somehow Pansy had kept her face glued to his crotch, taking him all the way to the base, her upturned nose pressed into his dark curls. His balls rested against her chin, and her tongue lashed against the underside of his shaft. His natural instinct was to buck his hips forward and back and enjoy the hot, wet confines of her throat, but her hands again restricted him. One grasped his thigh, and the other curved over his hip, holding him in place while she enjoyed sucking him off.

“You’ve got a high opinion of yourself,” Harry growled, shaking off the recollection, “Best sex of my life?”
“It was sex with me. Must have been,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
“Must have been…” Harry repeated slowly. “Ha! You don’t have any better idea what happened last night than I do.”
“I do, too, Potter,” she snapped, her jovial tone gone as quickly as it came. “I hit you up at the bar where you were moping pathetically and trying to drink away your sorrows.”
“Yeah, and why were you there? Same reason? Just get your invite to the Malfoy/Greengrass wedding?”
He instantly knew he’d gone too far. Her face lost its colour. Her jaw set and she made no answer at all. Looking at her sitting there, sullen and wearing nothing but his shirt, Harry suddenly felt ashamed. He realised she was just as clueless as he, and rather than being understanding, he’d used it to pierce right through her armour. Just how much of an arsehole was he?
“Pansy…” he said slowly. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I just… I just usually like to know the people I’m with a little better before we’re having half-naked breakfasts together.”
“Do you really?” Pansy said slightly shrilly. “Well, you can forget about knowing me any better, Potter.”
“What? I…” Harry spluttered.
“Because I’m not your rebound girl, Potter. Not one of your floozies you can smile and win over just ‘cos of that scar, and I am most certainly not playing second fiddle to that ginger cow of yours.”
Red in the face, she stalked over to the sofa and pulled out her wand from between the seat-cushion and arm rest, turning on him. For a second Harry thought he was going to get the hexing of a lifetime, but then there was a loud cracking sound, and she was gone.
Sullenly, Harry kicked his chair and groaned. Good riddance to the woman. Fuming, he started to put his flat to rights. He threw the plates and cutlery in the dishwasher. Then he straightened the cushions on the sofa and went back the bedroom to reassemble his wardrobe. Then he realised as he stared at the pile of discarded shirts in anguish: whatever else was going to happen between them, he was going to have to see Pansy again.
She still had his best shirt.

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Morning Larks