harry potter fic: all i want is the taste that your lips allow
all i want is the taste that your lips allow. pansy/draco. r. They are all still teenagers, anyways.
There’s a package of cigarettes in Pansy’s hand, half-empty and squashed.
Draco, his hair falling into his eyes, drawls Those things’ll kill you, you know and Pansy resists the urge to push his hair back. Pansy’s hair looks like a stain against Draco’s white sheets, black, oily, hard to remove. Draco offers her a lighter. She blows smoke back in his face. There’s a ring on his finger these days, but Pansy finds it hard to feel bad. Draco nuzzles into her shoulder before biting lightly and she laughs, puts out the cigarette on the nightstand and runs her tongue along the roof of his mouth.
Some things never change.
Pansy went to the wedding with a plus one, some fancy banker with slicked black hair and large gray eyes. Draco’s mouth twitched at the receiving line, shaking her date’s hand firmly.
Congratulations, Pansy purred, slipping her hand into Draco’s daintily. Her dress was dark green and inappropriate, wrapping around her body like a curse, stealing focus away from the bride. Draco’s finger rested at her pulse, tapping softly against it.
Thanks, he said stiffly. Astoria smiled politely at her and Pansy sneered. Her lipstick was maroon and when she kissed Draco on the cheek, it left a perfect imprint.
He found her at her table later. Pansy’s hand was wrapped around a champagne flute and she arched an eyebrow when he sat next to her, one hand on her knee.
“Nice date,” he said. His face is drawn into a pout, his mouth turned down at the corners. Pansy wanted to laugh. They are all still teenagers, anyways.
“Nice wife,” she told him, her nails rapping against the silk tablecloth.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Pans.”
The band switched to a slow dance and Pansy could see Astoria, her white dress brushing on the floor as she searched for Draco. Pansy tossed back the rest of her champagne and hoped it picked up dirt.
“We both know I look excellent in green, Draco,” she spat before sweeping off to find her date.
After the war, Pansy was a frail thing, her bones always pressing sharply into her skin, her mouth drawn down into a grimace. She worked for a bookshop and hated it. It seemed like there were never any people around anymore, but she didn't mind that so much. There was a steady rotation of young men, their faces lined with grief and calloused hands. That's usually enough for her.
Draco showed up at her apartment one night with a bottle of firewhiskey and a slur to his words.
He caught her face between his hands and said, God I’ve missed you. It’s enough to make anyone feel romantic, really. Pansy’s hands were steady but Draco was shaking everywhere and it’s only when she flattened him to her bed, her hands on his chest as she rocked on top of him, that he stopped.
At Hogwarts, Draco told her I love you.
They were in the Common Room and her hair was short still, brushing against her ears. She was sixteen and Draco was beautiful then, shining with money and promise and he treated her like a queen, like something to be treasured.
Draco told her, I love you and Pansy felt change coming, felt war breathing down her back.
Oh Draco, she sighed, the room empty and almost cold, straddling him in the oversize velvet chair everyone used for this sort of thing, that doesn’t really matter, does it?
He slipped his hand underneath her skirt and pushed her underwear to the side, three fingers inside of her so she had to throw her head back and move with it, his mouth angry on her and everywhere, and it was Draco who said, It could if you wanted it to.
Her eyes were closed and she could not look at him, couldn’t do anything but keep moving.
She said, I don’t and then she came with his fingers still inside of her.
There’s a package of cigarettes in Pansy’s hand, half-empty and squashed.
Draco, his hair falling into his eyes, drawls Those things’ll kill you, you know and Pansy resists the urge to push his hair back. Pansy’s hair looks like a stain against Draco’s white sheets, black, oily, hard to remove. Draco offers her a lighter. She blows smoke back in his face. There’s a ring on his finger these days, but Pansy finds it hard to feel bad. Draco nuzzles into her shoulder before biting lightly and she laughs, puts out the cigarette on the nightstand and runs her tongue along the roof of his mouth.
Some things never change.
Pansy went to the wedding with a plus one, some fancy banker with slicked black hair and large gray eyes. Draco’s mouth twitched at the receiving line, shaking her date’s hand firmly.
Congratulations, Pansy purred, slipping her hand into Draco’s daintily. Her dress was dark green and inappropriate, wrapping around her body like a curse, stealing focus away from the bride. Draco’s finger rested at her pulse, tapping softly against it.
Thanks, he said stiffly. Astoria smiled politely at her and Pansy sneered. Her lipstick was maroon and when she kissed Draco on the cheek, it left a perfect imprint.
He found her at her table later. Pansy’s hand was wrapped around a champagne flute and she arched an eyebrow when he sat next to her, one hand on her knee.
“Nice date,” he said. His face is drawn into a pout, his mouth turned down at the corners. Pansy wanted to laugh. They are all still teenagers, anyways.
“Nice wife,” she told him, her nails rapping against the silk tablecloth.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Pans.”
The band switched to a slow dance and Pansy could see Astoria, her white dress brushing on the floor as she searched for Draco. Pansy tossed back the rest of her champagne and hoped it picked up dirt.
“We both know I look excellent in green, Draco,” she spat before sweeping off to find her date.
After the war, Pansy was a frail thing, her bones always pressing sharply into her skin, her mouth drawn down into a grimace. She worked for a bookshop and hated it. It seemed like there were never any people around anymore, but she didn't mind that so much. There was a steady rotation of young men, their faces lined with grief and calloused hands. That's usually enough for her.
Draco showed up at her apartment one night with a bottle of firewhiskey and a slur to his words.
He caught her face between his hands and said, God I’ve missed you. It’s enough to make anyone feel romantic, really. Pansy’s hands were steady but Draco was shaking everywhere and it’s only when she flattened him to her bed, her hands on his chest as she rocked on top of him, that he stopped.
At Hogwarts, Draco told her I love you.
They were in the Common Room and her hair was short still, brushing against her ears. She was sixteen and Draco was beautiful then, shining with money and promise and he treated her like a queen, like something to be treasured.
Draco told her, I love you and Pansy felt change coming, felt war breathing down her back.
Oh Draco, she sighed, the room empty and almost cold, straddling him in the oversize velvet chair everyone used for this sort of thing, that doesn’t really matter, does it?
He slipped his hand underneath her skirt and pushed her underwear to the side, three fingers inside of her so she had to throw her head back and move with it, his mouth angry on her and everywhere, and it was Draco who said, It could if you wanted it to.
Her eyes were closed and she could not look at him, couldn’t do anything but keep moving.
She said, I don’t and then she came with his fingers still inside of her.