WISHLISTS: Summer in the City (Daphne/Pansy)
Author: kiertorata
Recipient: leontinabowie
Title: Summer in the City
Pairing: Daphne/Pansy
Request/Prompt: Living in the city, all about short skirts, wine, and exploring their freedom
Rating: R
Word Count: 741
Summary: During the daytime they explore Paris, during the nighttime themselves.
Author's Notes: My first Daphne/Pansy ever :)
“I swear I’ll never take the underground again,” Pansy said. “I’d rather take the risk of Apparating on top of a Muggle.”
“You have no sense of adventure,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes.
Paris was the perfect city to get lost in. On the first day, they ditched their ill-fitting Muggle clothes and scavenged the chic boutiques for something more suitable. They shopped for the shortest skirts they had ever seen and marveled at the freedom of finally getting to wear something that didn’t suffocate them in the scorching summer sun.
They felt out of place for the first few days, new to the city and to Muggle culture, but soon adjusted to the lazy rhythm of Paris in the summer. Rude locals, tourists bustling about inconsequentially, high-end streets and dirty alleys were what Paris represented to them. They spent long evenings at cafés and wine bars getting drunk and talking to strangers.
Pansy, who rather enjoyed herself as a mysterious woman with a mysterious past, made up ludicrous stories about their past and kept the drinks coming. Daphne mostly just listened to her broken French and shook her head, shocked and amused by Pansy’s audacity.
Just for the hell of it, they moved lodgings every couple of days. Sometimes Pansy wondered whether it was truly for a sense of adventure or just to escape, but she shrugged the thought off.
They met other witches and wizards in wizarding parts of the city, but soon found that they could do without the heavy discussions about the war. Eventually they only spent time in Muggle parts of the city. Muggles only cared to know if the weather in Scotland really was that terrible.
By day, they searched the cobbled streets and small boutiques of Paris. By night, Pansy wandered the endless streets of Daphne’s long limbs and sun-kissed skin and offered her curves and soft lips in return.
Whatever it was, they didn’t question it. The frantic exploration of their sexualities was just an extension of their exploration of the city.
Daphne, like so many in this city before her, was struck by the absurd desire to become a painter. She bought supplies and coaxed the shopkeeper to explain to her the basics, before embarking on a mad journey towards artistic fulfilment. Pansy, the amused spectator, played her part as the disobedient model and muse.
“Lie still, you idiot,” Daphne commanded from behind the canvas.
Her voice, angry, yet irresistible, usually compelled Pansy do the opposite. Pansy reached for her wine glass and laughed cheekily when Daphne scolded her. Not before long, her naked presence usually destroyed any attempt of Daphne’s to concentrate, and they ended up rolling around and kissing amidst the havoc of paints, canvases and empty wine bottles.
The finished paintings were terrible, of course. Pansy pretended she didn’t notice when Daphne secretly spelled them better.
When it rained, they stayed in and listened to the patter of droplets on the roof. They drowned the fresh scent of rain under the smell of wine, skin and unwashed sheets and spent their small eternity making love and talking about people, themselves, their futures and their now.
Daphne’s future was all about painting, galleries and recognition. Her ambition was much greater than her skill, but there was something endearing about her escapism. Pansy laughed goodheartedly at her daydreams, but listened nonetheless. She made up stories about their future, Daphne’s as an artist and hers as Daphne’s mistress.
They never talked about the past.
Pansy endured hours of galleries to please Daphne. She didn’t mind, really. She liked to make bitchy comments about the paintings while Daphne pretended to disapprove.
“You’ll be much better than any of them, dear,” she said and gently kissed Daphne’s neck.
A woman in the gallery came to complement them. She said she had never seen a sweeter couple.
“Merci,” Pansy said, laughing at her own pronunciation.
She squeezed Daphne’s hand harder and returned to look at whatever boring piece of art she was made to look at this time. Strangely liberal, the French, she thought.
When they returned to the room that night, Pansy thought about how things were at home. Maybe she would return someday. But today, Pansy was just glad to be here, naked in the waning evening light, lazily placing kisses on Daphne’s inner thigh. There was no future in this room with Daphne, and no burden of the past. Just freedom.
Recipient: leontinabowie
Title: Summer in the City
Pairing: Daphne/Pansy
Request/Prompt: Living in the city, all about short skirts, wine, and exploring their freedom
Rating: R
Word Count: 741
Summary: During the daytime they explore Paris, during the nighttime themselves.
Author's Notes: My first Daphne/Pansy ever :)
“I swear I’ll never take the underground again,” Pansy said. “I’d rather take the risk of Apparating on top of a Muggle.”
“You have no sense of adventure,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes.
Paris was the perfect city to get lost in. On the first day, they ditched their ill-fitting Muggle clothes and scavenged the chic boutiques for something more suitable. They shopped for the shortest skirts they had ever seen and marveled at the freedom of finally getting to wear something that didn’t suffocate them in the scorching summer sun.
They felt out of place for the first few days, new to the city and to Muggle culture, but soon adjusted to the lazy rhythm of Paris in the summer. Rude locals, tourists bustling about inconsequentially, high-end streets and dirty alleys were what Paris represented to them. They spent long evenings at cafés and wine bars getting drunk and talking to strangers.
Pansy, who rather enjoyed herself as a mysterious woman with a mysterious past, made up ludicrous stories about their past and kept the drinks coming. Daphne mostly just listened to her broken French and shook her head, shocked and amused by Pansy’s audacity.
Just for the hell of it, they moved lodgings every couple of days. Sometimes Pansy wondered whether it was truly for a sense of adventure or just to escape, but she shrugged the thought off.
They met other witches and wizards in wizarding parts of the city, but soon found that they could do without the heavy discussions about the war. Eventually they only spent time in Muggle parts of the city. Muggles only cared to know if the weather in Scotland really was that terrible.
By day, they searched the cobbled streets and small boutiques of Paris. By night, Pansy wandered the endless streets of Daphne’s long limbs and sun-kissed skin and offered her curves and soft lips in return.
Whatever it was, they didn’t question it. The frantic exploration of their sexualities was just an extension of their exploration of the city.
Daphne, like so many in this city before her, was struck by the absurd desire to become a painter. She bought supplies and coaxed the shopkeeper to explain to her the basics, before embarking on a mad journey towards artistic fulfilment. Pansy, the amused spectator, played her part as the disobedient model and muse.
“Lie still, you idiot,” Daphne commanded from behind the canvas.
Her voice, angry, yet irresistible, usually compelled Pansy do the opposite. Pansy reached for her wine glass and laughed cheekily when Daphne scolded her. Not before long, her naked presence usually destroyed any attempt of Daphne’s to concentrate, and they ended up rolling around and kissing amidst the havoc of paints, canvases and empty wine bottles.
The finished paintings were terrible, of course. Pansy pretended she didn’t notice when Daphne secretly spelled them better.
When it rained, they stayed in and listened to the patter of droplets on the roof. They drowned the fresh scent of rain under the smell of wine, skin and unwashed sheets and spent their small eternity making love and talking about people, themselves, their futures and their now.
Daphne’s future was all about painting, galleries and recognition. Her ambition was much greater than her skill, but there was something endearing about her escapism. Pansy laughed goodheartedly at her daydreams, but listened nonetheless. She made up stories about their future, Daphne’s as an artist and hers as Daphne’s mistress.
They never talked about the past.
Pansy endured hours of galleries to please Daphne. She didn’t mind, really. She liked to make bitchy comments about the paintings while Daphne pretended to disapprove.
“You’ll be much better than any of them, dear,” she said and gently kissed Daphne’s neck.
A woman in the gallery came to complement them. She said she had never seen a sweeter couple.
“Merci,” Pansy said, laughing at her own pronunciation.
She squeezed Daphne’s hand harder and returned to look at whatever boring piece of art she was made to look at this time. Strangely liberal, the French, she thought.
When they returned to the room that night, Pansy thought about how things were at home. Maybe she would return someday. But today, Pansy was just glad to be here, naked in the waning evening light, lazily placing kisses on Daphne’s inner thigh. There was no future in this room with Daphne, and no burden of the past. Just freedom.