. . .


harry potter x pansy parkinson


"What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?"

by optimise


"Stop fucking talking so I can focus on getting your fucking zipper open, Potter," Pansy crassly hisses, the taste of bitter dark cherry chocolate still swirling around her gums from the one sloppy open-mouthed kiss he just planted on the corner of her mouth, his tongue shoving his way down her throat.

It only took about a minute of tumbling through the navy-painted and gold-encrusted doorway of the fifth room on the first floor before Potter finally got his trousers undone and his crinkled maroon top (a pitiful attempt at holiday cheer, really) over his perpetually messy and tousled hair.

Pansy just wants to eat him up from the look of him — dark and lean and kind of lanky, but absolutely delicious; and yes, Pansy would know. Her eyes glaze over with another round of those 'fuck me eyes' that Potter deemed once after they were both sated and exhausted and panting for breath on the floor of the bathroom at Ginny Weasley's birthday party.

Potter hiccups while attempting to lean forward and kiss her again, and Pansy gets lost in his taste — all musky and crisp and fragrant — against her coercing lips. She moans into his open mouth, searching for his tongue to battle as his trembling hands go to the zipper of her silver-gemmed pencil skirt.

And when his big hands finally touch her bare skin, all previous hesitation gets shoved out the door, past the barriers of her heart. It's all silky caresses with calloused hands and long drawn-out groans underneath lips on lips. And legs tangled till one can't be identified from another.

Don't get her wrong. They fit like puzzle pieces jammed together by an inapt toddler with chubby fingers. But, she thinks in some world — far, far away from the one they're living in — they're together in some sense. Like souls branded for each other. Connected in some way. The mere thought is sappy and mushy and she'd rather be caught dead in an tangerine halter top without a bra like the fucking Spice Girls or drink extremely watered down chai lattes for the rest of her life than ever be known to think that.

But her icicle of a heart has been known to melt to sharp slush just from a sultry or pouty or melancholy look from his luscious green eyes. Occasionally. Maybe once or twice.

"Parkinson?" Potter asks between exhales as he rests his forehead on her shoulder, his dank breath mingling with her beaded perspiration.

She flutters her eyes shut and hums out a brief groan in response for him to continue on.

"There's this New Year party thing at my house next week," Potter starts. He pauses and inhales sharply. "It'd be cool if you came or something."

Pansy freezes under his lanky body and her hands begin to grip the silk sheets under her fists in tiny clumps of irresolution. "As friends?"

He lifts his head from the crook of her neck, leaving a frigid blast of air to send goose flesh running down her spine. A small, wry grimace appears on his face in the most inopportune of moments, and he licks his chapped cherry lips twice.

"No," he breathes out. The words sound like daggers. Barbaric, cruel, cold, clenching, furious, degrading, vicious, bitter daggers, taken straight at the heart.

Pansy gnaws nervously at her mouth before pursing her smudged scarlet lips. "Can't. I have plans."

She doesn't even attempt to hide the anger laced in her words, and on instinct, her eyebrows raise in a manner clearly asking him to retaliate. Pansy had always been good at this — cutting down people with words and gestures until they reached her level. It's a little thing she picked up from years of watching her mother let a plethora of guys wanting to rob her of her virtue with no qualms. And doing it to Potter made the treat all the more sweet.

There's a flash of what seemed like disappointment etched on his face, and Potter finally rolls off her body. All Pansy feels is cold. And cold. And cold.

"I was hoping we could go as more than friends," Potter whispers into the white of the night.

Pansy blanches and refuses to look at him, scared of seeing something she doesn't want to. She blinks furiously before saying in a baffled tone, "What?"

"Maybe we could go as more than friends." A long pause. "It's not different, really. I would just be able to hold your hand whenever I wanted, and you could kiss me without the fear of people judging us. And we can have sex without having to make plans for it. And when people ask if this is real — if we're real — I wouldn't have any hesitation in saying the word I so want to say. Yes."

For most of her life, Pansy never believed in the mushy myth that someone's heart could actually stop, turn in on itself, and be so close to heaving out of one's chest just from the words of a boy. And for the first time, she finds herself to be wrong.

Her pulse is throbbing at the base of her neck. And that's when she knows.

It's more than this, she realises. They're more than hidden shags in pitch-black room and sultry smirks across the room. Months of fucking behind everyone's backs became so much more, so so so much more. Of course, Pansy has tried to push that guttural feeling that could only be explained as a crush to the back of her mind when she watches his eyes crinkle with crow's feet every time he laughs full-heartedly or when she blushes every time they talk about nonsensical things after the sex part of whatever they were.

But, here Potter was — defining their relationship, for real this time. A slow, sensual warmth rises to surround the butterflies in her stomach. She doesn't ignore it.

"If you ever try to get that sappy again, Potter," Pansy warns, gulping down the lodge in her throat. "I'll dump your arse before you can even think the word 'SORRY.'"

And this time, when Potter cages her in with his lean arms, towering over her with a wide smile and sparkling green eyes, Pansy lets out a watery laugh. And this time, when Harry kisses her till her toes curl in and her nose tingles red, Pansy responds with feverish intentions and passionate nips.

And this time, when Harry strokes her cheeks and caresses her pink flesh and trails his calloused hands down the valleys of her chest, it's because they're together.

They're together.

It doesn't sound as wrong as Pansy once thought.


a/n: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯