A Pair of Stockings 1/1
Title: A Pair of Stockings
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Pansy
Word count:1149
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine at all.
It wasn't as if he was scared.
Ron watched the pretty witch from across the room, her stocking-clad legs crossed demurely (oh, how he adored stockings), her foot tapping to the beat of the music. His eyes lingered of the top part of the silk, the lacy part covering her leg just before he knew there was a creamy expanse of thigh, and that they were held up by what Ron imagined were black lacy garters. The kind with the ribbons on for decoration. Perhaps a pink bow in the front.
Sweet Merlin alive, he loved stockings.
He blinked a few times, his gaze drifting surreptitiously up to the thin straps of her red dress, the dress to which he was immensely grateful because the amount of cleavage it showed made his pulse race and his libido soar.
Her lips, cherry red and teasing him by closing around a straw, sucking an amber liquid into her mouth, were full and lush, and if he closed his eyes he could see her in his mind's eye, close to him, her mouth close to his, whispering all the naughty things she was going to do to him once they got somewhere more private.
Of course, this was a fantasy that he entertained only in his own mind. There was no way that he'd ever actually talk to Pansy Parkinson. He'd get laughed at outright. Besides, the woman had her pick of suitors that surrounded her, men who apparently were good enough to be in her inner circle. No, he was better off safely ensconced in a booth across the room, watching. No harm in watching, after all. And this way he wouldn't have to hear her. No doubt she was still the same soul-sucking harpy that she'd been in school, with mocking and derision her go-to weapons.
Yeah, so maybe he was a little scared. Ron preferred the term, "smart."
That didn't mean Ron wasn't going to look at her stockings. Strident voice or no, those were a gorgeous pair of legs, and she wore stockings.
He allowed himself another look. The chair in which she'd been sitting was empty, and the men that surrounded it were all looking vaguely in Ron's direction. He sipped his drink, automatically turning to scan the room behind him.
Stopping short as he saw a waterfall of brunette hair to his left, he suddenly found the tabletop immensely interesting.
"I've seen you looking," a low throaty voice said from the direction he knew Pansy Parkinson to be standing. "Don't pretend you're not, now. It doesn't suit you."
So the voice wasn't strident. He couldn't tell about the mocking and derision, though. So far, she seemed to be merely making an observation. He chanced a look.
It was like a punch to the gut, how heart-stoppingly beautiful she was. Some girls looked pretty from afar, until you got close, in which case they turned out to have put on make-up with a hand trowel, or had an outsize nose or something. With Pansy, she seemed to be naturally beautiful. Her nose was still a bit short, but it fit her face. Her skin tone was gorgeous and smooth, making him want to touch her, and her aforementioned hair looked like it needed him to run his fingers through it; it was long and thick, wavy and it fell in an intriguing curtain in front of one side of her face. He just caught himself before he reached over to move it so that he could see her eyes properly. They were intently watching him at this point, the chocolate brown orbs fringed with long, dark lashes. His gaze flitted to the lips he'd been entranced by earlier, now lifted in a slight smirk.
She was obviously waiting for him to say something. Her head was tilted expectantly, and when he said nothing, the tiniest frown imaginable indented her forehead, and then her expression went blank. "Old prejudices die hard, I see," she said, surmising his silence to be contempt.
The truth was, he didn't know what to say. 'I think you're bloody gorgeous and want you to sit with me, use those lips to kiss me and then take me somewhere private so that I can get rid of a little tension and hear you moan', didn't seem to be the sort of icebreaker she'd go for. He felt like a bloody idiot, struck dumb by a pair of stockings.
"Shame," she said, shrugging one lily white shoulder elegantly, "when you've grown up so nicely. It's too bad you don't have a personality to match."
She turned away, her back to him as she retreated to the bar. He knew with a glance that her flock of admirers was still held in thrall across the room, and he spoke, just loudly enough to have her hear. "I'm a nice enough bloke, Parkinson," he stuttered out, defending himself. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable by staring."
Retrieving her fresh drink from the bar, she spun back around with a smile. "So you were looking."
"You know that I was."
She shook her head, her pretty curls shaking as she did so. "No, I wasn't sure," she admitted, moving so close that he could smell her perfume (it smelled so nice that he thought he might die from the pleasure), and he leaned forward and inhaled, without meaning to do so. "But there was always the hope."
"Hope?" he repeated dumbly. That didn't quite make sense. Why should she hope that he'd be looking at her? There were a dozen men over there waiting for her return, men that were none too pleased with him, if the expression on their faces was anything to go by.
Pansy nodded. "It's alright. I understand that you can't afford to be seen with me. Or even looking at me, apparently." A shadow passed across her face, gone as swiftly as it came, and she gave another nonchalant shrug. "The nice ones never can." With that, she moved back across the room, her hips swaying, each step revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the top of her stocking. Merlin help him, he didn't think he'd be able to stand, now, at the rate his body was reacting.
His face colored at she tossed her hair behind her and glanced back at him over her shoulder. She looked... well, resigned was a good word for it. Maybe a touch sad. Ron frowned into his beer. That wasn't the way it was. He didn't have an issue with what anyone thought. Hell, up until just this moment, he didn't think he even had a shot with her.
Now apparently, he did.
Now he just had to figure a way to approach her. And he would. He definitely would.
Because he wasn't scared. No, he thought, his gaze once again dropping to those long, silk and lace encased legs of hers. Scared is definitely not what I'm feeling right now.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Pansy
Word count:1149
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine at all.
It wasn't as if he was scared.
Ron watched the pretty witch from across the room, her stocking-clad legs crossed demurely (oh, how he adored stockings), her foot tapping to the beat of the music. His eyes lingered of the top part of the silk, the lacy part covering her leg just before he knew there was a creamy expanse of thigh, and that they were held up by what Ron imagined were black lacy garters. The kind with the ribbons on for decoration. Perhaps a pink bow in the front.
Sweet Merlin alive, he loved stockings.
He blinked a few times, his gaze drifting surreptitiously up to the thin straps of her red dress, the dress to which he was immensely grateful because the amount of cleavage it showed made his pulse race and his libido soar.
Her lips, cherry red and teasing him by closing around a straw, sucking an amber liquid into her mouth, were full and lush, and if he closed his eyes he could see her in his mind's eye, close to him, her mouth close to his, whispering all the naughty things she was going to do to him once they got somewhere more private.
Of course, this was a fantasy that he entertained only in his own mind. There was no way that he'd ever actually talk to Pansy Parkinson. He'd get laughed at outright. Besides, the woman had her pick of suitors that surrounded her, men who apparently were good enough to be in her inner circle. No, he was better off safely ensconced in a booth across the room, watching. No harm in watching, after all. And this way he wouldn't have to hear her. No doubt she was still the same soul-sucking harpy that she'd been in school, with mocking and derision her go-to weapons.
Yeah, so maybe he was a little scared. Ron preferred the term, "smart."
That didn't mean Ron wasn't going to look at her stockings. Strident voice or no, those were a gorgeous pair of legs, and she wore stockings.
He allowed himself another look. The chair in which she'd been sitting was empty, and the men that surrounded it were all looking vaguely in Ron's direction. He sipped his drink, automatically turning to scan the room behind him.
Stopping short as he saw a waterfall of brunette hair to his left, he suddenly found the tabletop immensely interesting.
"I've seen you looking," a low throaty voice said from the direction he knew Pansy Parkinson to be standing. "Don't pretend you're not, now. It doesn't suit you."
So the voice wasn't strident. He couldn't tell about the mocking and derision, though. So far, she seemed to be merely making an observation. He chanced a look.
It was like a punch to the gut, how heart-stoppingly beautiful she was. Some girls looked pretty from afar, until you got close, in which case they turned out to have put on make-up with a hand trowel, or had an outsize nose or something. With Pansy, she seemed to be naturally beautiful. Her nose was still a bit short, but it fit her face. Her skin tone was gorgeous and smooth, making him want to touch her, and her aforementioned hair looked like it needed him to run his fingers through it; it was long and thick, wavy and it fell in an intriguing curtain in front of one side of her face. He just caught himself before he reached over to move it so that he could see her eyes properly. They were intently watching him at this point, the chocolate brown orbs fringed with long, dark lashes. His gaze flitted to the lips he'd been entranced by earlier, now lifted in a slight smirk.
She was obviously waiting for him to say something. Her head was tilted expectantly, and when he said nothing, the tiniest frown imaginable indented her forehead, and then her expression went blank. "Old prejudices die hard, I see," she said, surmising his silence to be contempt.
The truth was, he didn't know what to say. 'I think you're bloody gorgeous and want you to sit with me, use those lips to kiss me and then take me somewhere private so that I can get rid of a little tension and hear you moan', didn't seem to be the sort of icebreaker she'd go for. He felt like a bloody idiot, struck dumb by a pair of stockings.
"Shame," she said, shrugging one lily white shoulder elegantly, "when you've grown up so nicely. It's too bad you don't have a personality to match."
She turned away, her back to him as she retreated to the bar. He knew with a glance that her flock of admirers was still held in thrall across the room, and he spoke, just loudly enough to have her hear. "I'm a nice enough bloke, Parkinson," he stuttered out, defending himself. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable by staring."
Retrieving her fresh drink from the bar, she spun back around with a smile. "So you were looking."
"You know that I was."
She shook her head, her pretty curls shaking as she did so. "No, I wasn't sure," she admitted, moving so close that he could smell her perfume (it smelled so nice that he thought he might die from the pleasure), and he leaned forward and inhaled, without meaning to do so. "But there was always the hope."
"Hope?" he repeated dumbly. That didn't quite make sense. Why should she hope that he'd be looking at her? There were a dozen men over there waiting for her return, men that were none too pleased with him, if the expression on their faces was anything to go by.
Pansy nodded. "It's alright. I understand that you can't afford to be seen with me. Or even looking at me, apparently." A shadow passed across her face, gone as swiftly as it came, and she gave another nonchalant shrug. "The nice ones never can." With that, she moved back across the room, her hips swaying, each step revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the top of her stocking. Merlin help him, he didn't think he'd be able to stand, now, at the rate his body was reacting.
His face colored at she tossed her hair behind her and glanced back at him over her shoulder. She looked... well, resigned was a good word for it. Maybe a touch sad. Ron frowned into his beer. That wasn't the way it was. He didn't have an issue with what anyone thought. Hell, up until just this moment, he didn't think he even had a shot with her.
Now apparently, he did.
Now he just had to figure a way to approach her. And he would. He definitely would.
Because he wasn't scared. No, he thought, his gaze once again dropping to those long, silk and lace encased legs of hers. Scared is definitely not what I'm feeling right now.