Harry's not entirely sure how exactly he ended up shagging Pansy Parkinson against Snape's desk on that particular Tuesday morning. He knows it's not entirely logical, that it's morally a bit questionable, and that his choice of setting must mean something horrifying about his subconscious, but he can't quite bring himself to give a damn. As a matter of fact, the only thing he can think of at the moment is the warm body in front of him, the breathless sounds of pleasure elicited with every thrust, the curve of Pansy's back in front of him, the hot muscles enveloping his cock.
They're both still wearing their clothes, or as many as they can while doing what they're doing – Harry's trousers and pants are bunched around his knees, Pansy's knickers are somewhere around her ankles, and her skirt is pushed up to reveal Harry moving in and out of her. Her buttocks are slightly pinked with palm prints, and her hands are desperately clutching the edge of the desk as she's slammed forward repeatedly. Every time the Gryffindor thrusts in, she lets out another one of those delicious moans, and when he occasionally swats her arse with a hot palm, she tries to hide the pleasure behind pained 'oh' that escapes her lips.
"Harder," she says, breath hitching, and lowers her head to rest between her arms, catching the skin of her wrist with her teeth and biting down, hard.
Harry grips her hips tighter and changes the angle of his thrusts, accelerating to a near-violent pace, not really caring that she's going to be one extremely sore Slytherin later on. He doubts that she cares, either.
"Oh, fuck, yes," Pansy shouts out loudly enough to make Harry worry about their privacy, "right there, don't stop, Harry, fuck..!"
Whether that last coherent word was an exclamation or an order, he doesn't know, but complies nevertheless. He slaps her right buttock again, a bit harder, and this time she doesn't even bother trying to hide how much she likes it. The string of filthy words coming out of her doesn't stop, in addition to the sight of her curvy body squirming in front of him is enough to make him have to resist the urge to just fuck until he explodes – he knows Pansy prefers coming like this, rough and filled, instead of the short, acute pleasure of eating out.
By the time the Slytherin's moans escalate another few notches and her body starts to quake around his, Harry is on the brink of losing his control. His cock is screaming for release, and only the knowledge that she'd probably hex him if he came before she did is what's keeping his thrusts steady, aimed to hit that spot she likes so much every time. When he finally feels her muscles contracting around him and her body convulsing with the force of her orgasm, he lets go. He grabs better hold of her hips and drives in and out, relishing in the feeling of her soft, wet sex and the subsiding contractions of her muscles. By the time he comes, after what feels like an eternity of pure want, it's with a loud curse and a grunt sounding something like Pansy's name, and he has to reach out and grab the desk in order to not collapse right there and then.
For a while, they just lean there, catching their breaths, and Harry pressing soft kisses on Pansy's back and neck. After a while, though, the cooling sweat and come is starting to get uncomfortable, and, murmuring a cleaning spell, they straighten up. Harry traces a slightly sticky index finger against her pale hip bone, which has already started to bruise from the force of the desk hitting it repeatedly. "You'd better not let Malfoy see those."
"I won't, don't worry. But seriously? Harry Potter, you are one kinky shit," Pansy laughs a bit breathlessly as she swats Harry's hand away from where it's started to trace the prints of his palm on her buttocks, and pulls up her knickers. "Spanking and clothed against Snape's desk – not that I'm complaining, mind you – plus, the first thing you say afterwards is a reference to Draco?"
Harry fights down a blush as he pulls his trousers up and replies, "Oh, shut up and run back to your boyfriend."
"Now, now," she grins, "no need to be so jealous."
"I'm not jealous," Harry replies with a roll of his eyes and pulls his zip up. "You can fuck whoever you want, and so can I."
"I'm not talking about myself; I'm talking about your little obsession with Draco." Her grin is an alarming mixture of smug and devious, and Harry has a sudden urge to take her again right now just to shut her up. "Don't worry, I'm sure I can get him to agree to a threesome," she says, leans in and kisses his throat briefly, and leaves the classroom.
Harry is left staring at the empty spot where Pansy stood just a minute ago. Bloody Slytherins.