Pride and Pain Without Preamble
Description: pretty much a PWP. Daphne's sick of Pansy's shit. She's giving up. But Pansy's not done. Pansy was never done, never defeated. And Slytherin's comfort each other in strange ways. FEMME SLASH
AN: just wanting to write as much femslash as I can for this fandom. This one is PP/DG with a slight mention of HP/DM.
WARNINGS: PWP, rough sex, homosexual sex, girl x girl, I don't know if you haven't gotten it yet but flamers will be dealt with. ONE SHOT. R & R, if you want a fluffy follow up, let me know and I'll write it. I've got something in mind.
Daphne Greengrass allowed herself a small moan, placing her rough palms against the tile of the Slytherin Quidditch Team's showers. She spread out each finger, feeling the coolness of the porcelain seep through the callused pads. Water rushed out of the spout on it's hottest setting, scalding her skin and soothing her tired muscles. She shook her pixie cut hair vigorously, sending the spray flashing in all directions that were caught by the dim and green light from the lanterns, making them look surreal and dropped her head.
Her black fringe hung down in her crystal green eyes and she looked down at the tiled floor, watching the water swirl as she turned her back on the shower head. The drain took the soiled water happily, making a disgusting slurping sound as though it were starving. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at it's greediness and leaned her head back again, letting the water rush over her small breasts and Quidditch toned body.
It was a rough sport, a trying and challenging sport. That was why Daphne loved Quidditch. She loved being a Chaser as much as she loved being a Slytherin. On the pitch, Daphne was no longer a delicate pureblooded woman, fighting back her rage to appear proper. No, on the Pitch, Daphne could release her rage. She could fling the Quaffle at the other teams Keeper's face as hard as she liked, take her aggression out on the other Chasers, slamming into them and sometimes sending them spiraling to the ground. On the Pitch, Daphne was free.
A small whimper drew her attention and she snarled, looking up with narrowed eyes. Even naked and in the shower, with soap bubbles travelling down her creamy skin, Daphne was never vulnerable, ever. She looked fierce, ready to hex who ever had interrupted her. But, it was Pansy. It was just Pansy. It was beautifully broken Pansy.
It was always Pansy.
Daphne erased the death from her face, watching the Slytherin girl stand there, just out of the spray of water. The night was cool and as the heat from Daphne's shower met the ice cold air, it pooled around Pansy's feet in a light mist, as thought she were walking on clouds. Pansy used to walk on clouds.
Before the war.
Before she'd been stupid and tried to through Potter to the wolves.
Daphne smirked. Pansy Parkinson was nothing if not honest. Yet, now, as she had so many times before since Daphne had thrown her over her shoulder- kicking and screaming- and onto the Hogwarts Express to return to school and face the world, she just looked broken. There was no sneer, no happy laughter, no clouds and no light. The green light from the showers and from the Slytherin commons where she spent most of her days hiding played off her skin, making her appear to be dead. It wasn't flattering.
That's what bothered Daphne. It wasn't flattering and Pansy didn't even care a whit. She looked up at Daphne, dragging her eyes from her feet to her sex before pausing and then up to pause on her breasts and finally meeting her eyes, holding her gaze sadly. So, Daphne smirked. Pansy wasn't entirely broken after all. She blushed, having been caught, but didn't look away.
"What do you want?" Daphne asked, deciding to give her house mate a show as she turned in the shower to shake the suds out of her hair once again. Her tone was flat but commanding, betraying no emotion. Like a proper Slytherin.
"No one cares," Pansy shot back, "all anyone cares about is bloody Potter."
"I don't." Daphne shot back, sending a scathing look over her shoulder, "and neither should you, no one should. No one really does."
"Draco does."
"When has anyone cared what Draco does." Daphne snorted, not making it an actual question. Pansy realized that. It wasn't a question, there was no answer. She stood there in silence and Daphne could bring herself to care, wallowing in her bitterness as she wallowed her sore muscles in the hot water. But practice was soothing and she would bare the pain for that.
"When has anyone cared what Pansy does?" Pansy asked and it was a real question. That fact aside, it didn't matter if Daphne answered it or not and if Pansy didn't know that by now, she certainly wasn't about to tell her. She could rot.
She could wallow in her own self pity.
Let the real Pansy die, for all Daphne gave a damn.
Daphne Greengrass was no hero. She'd given the effort and it had gone ignored. Let her die. Let her wallow. Let her writhe.
That word brought a slurrying rush of not-safe-for-viewing images from the depths of her dark mind, twisting and writhing and panting and screaming. Things she had long ago buried in a shallow grave like so many muggles for her father, long forgotten and supressed- bottled up tightly and shoved down into graveyard soil.
Oh but Pansy had gotten brave. There was one thing Daphne knew; a person could live in fear from the beginning to the end of their lives but at some point, somewhere along the wretched way, they would snap. Whether it be at the beginning, at the end, or in just some simple moment of clarity, there was a point where fear no longer mattered. A person grew tired from being afraid and terrified and they just stopped. They just stopped and could no longer feel fear in those moments.
Pansy was having one of those moments, reaching out now to touch one of Daphne's bare hips, her fingers ghosting against the pale skin. That was it. That was every single pain and fear and struggle that Daphne had, the dam breaking as it surged forward and washed over her, driving her mad. All of her rage and frustration reared up like it did when she slammed into people on the Pitch, when she broke their fingers and noses and left memories of her behind in huge, black bruises and dripping blood.
She was going to leave those marks on Pansy now.
There was no other way.
Snarling, Daphne spun, her tightly wound muscle proving that she didn't need a wand, never did. Pansy gasped, hair beginning to sink around her face in the shower water, streaming down and defeated. She didn't have a chance. Daphne grabbed her and she screamed but no one would hear her as she was slammed into the tile and Daphne's lips ravaged hers, bruising the petal soft skin.
But Pansy was a Slytherin and Daphne was proud to realize that she remembered it too. Her long glittering fingernails, the same ones she worked on so often, slashed out and into the skin on Daphne's back, digging in as she bit down on the girl's bottom lip. Daphne's green eyes met her blue, and the malicious glint there mixed with lust struck fear and excitement in Pansy as strong hands ripped her shirt and sent buttons scattering.
"On your fucking knees." Daphne snarled, wrapping Pansy's tie around her wrist and jerking the raven haired girl to her knees. Pansy noted the pain there but ignored it, clawing at Daphne's hips as she dipped her mouth in her sex, licking and sucking and moaning and whimpering. "that's a good girl." Daphne hissed, leaning against the wall and placing a foot up on the shower bench to reward Pansy with easier access.
She didn't pet her hair or do anything affectionate. Opening herself up was enough for now, for both of them. She grabbed Pansy's hair painfully, shoving her face tighter, nearly suffocating her but Pansy didn't give up, rasping from the water in her face, from Daphne in her mouth and the ever tightening tie around her neck. Pansy whimpered at the sight of Daphne, head leaned back and eyes closed and as soon as her grip loosened on Pansy's tie, her ripped shirt clinging to her skin, Pansy denied her what she wanted and lurched back.
Daphne's head snapped forward, eyes narrowed and she snarled. For just a moment, Pansy wondered if she'd made the best decision and crawled backwards, dragging her bottom on the wet floor. Her legs were spread, her skirt hiked up around her waist and she wasn't wearing any knickers. Her eyes widened with fright for a moment as she crawled backward and Daphne lunged, slamming into her and knocking her down.
Pansy didn't move, that was wise when a much larger predator stood over the top of you. Daphne crouched, running a hand loosely through Pansy's hair only to grip it and pull, hard. Pansy cried out, head snapping to the side where Daphne wanted it. Without any preamble, not a word uttered, Daphne was inside her. She didn't waste time, didn't stretch her out, she just slammed three fingers against her until Pansy was screaming incoherent sentences, mostly her name, apologies and to never stop.
Daphne smirked, watching her buck and writhe and beg and it was everything she had ever hoped for when Pansy came and fell back. Daphne didn't let her hit her head but caught it before it smacked the tile and laid it down gently before turning back to her shower. Pansy lay there, bruised and bleeding a bit, just watching her, enjoying the hot water and the after effects of orgasm, wondering what would happen next. When she was done, Daphne stepped gently over her and vanished.
Pansy didn't know what to do. Daphne had fucked her, given her the fuck of her life and then just stepped over her like so much garbage. Like everyone else. She let out a tiny whimper and then Daphne was back, dressed and kneeling with several towels. She pulled Pansy into her lap, drying her off and wrapping her tightly in a cloak, covering all the delicate fabric she'd shredded. She lifted her into her arms, bridal style, but never said a word. Pansy knew better than to argue. She'd known Daphne her whole life.
Daphne walked with determination and ease, as if Pansy were just a broom. It was a display of power and strength and drove Pansy mad with desire, watching her eyes, focused straight ahead and fixed jaw. No one questioned Daphne, no one ever did and then it was cold, too cold. They were in the dungeons, passing questioning faces that Pansy didn't want to face. She didn't have to. She turned in Daphne's grip, burrying her face in a dark green Quidditch cloak that reeked of the Pitch and Daphne.
Then she was falling onto the bed. Daphne's bed and the curtains were ripped closed as the Chaser snarled and lunged.
Pansy smiled, opening her arms to catch her.