Disclaimer: gratefully borrowed.
Author's notes: a bit of silliness that came to me in a sleepless night – I'm not sure if it's even coherent. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Feedback: please do.
This Thing
Daphne has this thing about baking.
Even as the thought forms itself in Pansy's mind, she scoffs at its crudeness, feels it scratch against the smooth edges of her other thoughts of Daphne, as if it doesn't quite fit there, as if it was cut too roughly. Her other thoughts about Daphne are polished ('black and white' – 'fingernails scratched the tabletop before the kiss' – 'blue mascara on skin-tight red dress' – 'cold and biting' and then there's more, more). 'Baking' damages their glossy thought surfaces, the b too thick and fat amongst every other elegant curve, the a too long and stretched, the k not quite sharp enough for Daphne. The 'ing' seems to get lost somehow and Pansy scrunches up her nose, displeased. She wants her thoughts to fit, to be smooth without any seams showing.
She can't get rid of it, though, as she watches Daphne order the house elves around, in that haughty way she has that seems to set her features sharply in stone. She acts like the queen of this kitchen (while she's really not) and Pansy didn't think anyone could look regal and strong when they're up to their elbows in dough.
Daphne can.
She doesn't know what Daphne's making this time – doesn't even know if she'll like it, Pansy doesn't really like a lot of things – but she knows she does like how Daphne's coloured reddish in the oven's glow, how she makes this kitchen her own (when really, it's not). Somehow she doesn't mind that it's late on a school night and that there are house elves around, insisting on offering her chocolate in those awful squeaky voices they have; Daphne's there, she looks warm and Pansy's thought of 'cold and biting' slowly fades away.
And then Daphne's here, her ice melted away by the oven. Her features aren't stone anymore, but soft under Pansy's fingers, they give way as if Pansy was a sculptor and Daphne a statue – that it might be the other way around as her body keeps saying, turned to liquid under Daphne's fingers, doesn't really seem to matter right now. Pansy twirls 'baking' around in her head, suddenly liking how it's sewn sloppily together and rough in every corner. The b hugs her close and tight, and she feels Daphne's aaaaaa breathed out over her skin in a warm contented stream, lets her hands wander over the jutted k of Daphne's hips –
"You've got crumbs on your lips," Daphne whispers, eyes heavily lidded, and even though Pansy knows that can't be true because she hasn't eaten anything yet, has she? she doesn't object.
Pansy rediscovers baking's 'ing' which she thought was lost, laid to rest on Daphne's collarbone winding down and down, uncovering her soft and open under her armour of bone.
There's kissing, and Pansy doesn't see any difference, not with Daphne's hands coming to rest at the nape of her neck, not with Daphne's lashes fluttering like butterflies against her cheekbones.
Daphne has this thing about baking. Pansy has this thing about kissing, even though it might have more to do with Daphne than anything, and honestly? it's the same thing.
- fin -