Where You At
Pairing: Parkgrass (Pansy Parkinson x Daphne Greengrass)
Universe: muggle AU
Rating: M
Summary: Olivie Advent cont'd.
Prompts: 1) Pansy x Daphne pairing; 2) Pansy x Daphne World Cup AU. I took a lot of inspiration from the EP Junk by Carlie Hanson.
Being a teenage girl is already gross and disgusting enough without having a perfect best friend to make it harder, but Daphne only looks perfect. In real life she swears and makes dirty jokes and complains about her zits, but only to Pansy. At school she's hot shit, all short skirts and fluttering lashes and whatever else it takes to get Michael Corner to do her AP Chem labs for her, but when it's just the two of them—at soccer practice, on Pansy's couch, in homeroom, anywhere Daphne might be avoiding being at home—it's different. It's natural. They have a secret language, they make pinky swears, they watch the same shitty tv shows and cry at the same parts of movies. They've been friends forever, longer than forever, ever since they were in diapers. They're practically sisters, as Daphne likes to say.
Pansy isn't allowed to do much on the nights before games, so Daphne usually comes over and they go for a run or something. Anything to get out of the house.
"Did you see Mr Lupin's sweater vest today?" Daphne asks with an air of being about to say something Pansy can never, ever repeat, though she wouldn't. They both know Daphne's secrets will go to Pansy's grave. "He has some real daddy vibes, you know?"
"You're disgusting," says Pansy disapprovingly, and Daphne shoves her off the back road they use that winds between the oversized McMansions of Pansy's gated community. In response, Pansy hooks one leg behind Daphne's knee, playfully tripping her up.
"God, I've been horny since I was like, twelve," sighs Daphne, tightening her ponytail as they both get back on track. "Too bad boys are fucking disgusting."
"And stupid," says Pansy. "Don't forget stupid."
"Totally stupid," Daphne drily agrees, "but they're just so boy, you know? Stupid boys," she laments. "So nice to look at. So totally inept."
"I really worry about what sort of stupid boy you'll end up with when I'm gone," scoffs Pansy unthinkingly, and for a moment, they both fall silent.
Neither of them date much, mostly because dating would take time away from soccer. They both worked hard to make varsity together as freshmen, then worked hard again to make co-captains as juniors, then worked even harder to get offered spots on college teams. They wanted to both work hard for UNC-Chapel Hill after Daphne got offered a spot as a sophomore, but when Pansy was recruited to Harvard, her parents made it clear where she was expected to get her degree. She and Daphne have been spending the last year trying not to think about what's going to happen once they're apart.
"Worry about the stupid boy, not me," says Daphne, eventually breaking the silence.
"Yeah," says Pansy, because she does.
They decide to go to Draco Malfoy's graduation party because one night isn't going to kill them, or so Daphne is forced to reassure Pansy. Pansy is the serious type, always worried about what people think of her, but Daphne's sick of what people think of her. She takes a shot and convinces Pansy to take one. She sees Draco's eyes on her and decides to give him something to look at, pulling Pansy to where the music is loud and starting to dance with her. You know, dance with her. Sexy, or as sexy as Daphne knows how to be without actually doing anything with anyone. She let the Bulgarian foreign exchange student finger her in the bathroom last year thinking it'd be fun and exciting or whatever, but it mostly just hurt, so she hasn't really done much since then. Only Pansy knows about that.
Daphne leans forward to kiss Pansy, knowing every boy in the room is watching. She's sending a very clear message—I'm a bad girl, look how bad I am, I fantasize about blowing my history teacher and I make out with my best friend, it's HOT—but it doesn't quite work out the way she plans, because Pansy is clearly uncomfortable and the kiss is clumsy, so instead Daphne sighs and pulls her away to take more shots. She doesn't have to take very many before she's stumbling, and when she spills on Draco's t-shirt, he rushes off to change and Daphne's already bored. She takes hold of a half-empty bottle of Patron and grabs Pansy's hand, pulling her outside.
They collapse on the lawn, taking turns sipping from the bottle. Pansy is smiling, flushed.
"This feels so weird," says Pansy, who never does anything wrong, ever. She crosses one leg over the other and Daphne watches the muscle flex in her quad. Pansy is really fucking good at soccer. So is Daphne, but Pansy loves it more. She works harder. Daphne is pretty sure she wouldn't be doing this if Pansy hadn't started when they were five, though Daphne is unnaturally quick, effortlessly agile. She loves running. She specifically loves running away.
Daphne's head is spinning a little when she takes the bottle from Pansy's hand. She takes a sip, deciding tequila is disgusting but in a good way, and says, "Have you ever made yourself come?"
"What? Jesus." Pansy's already pink cheeks redden furiously. "Daph. That's… I don't do that."
"God, I do it all the time." The first time was so weird. Her hand cramped doing it and for the entire next day she made excuses about why she couldn't write properly. "I feel like everything gets me going, you know? Mr. Lupin. Draco. Tracey's pink sports bra." That's a secret; it slips out. Pansy says nothing. "I've just got all this energy or something. There's something in me that's constantly on fire. I just want to burn out."
"Don't," says Pansy.
Daphne turns her head, and because she's drunk and sad about them parting ways for the first time ever and also a little curious about Pansy's lip gloss, she leans forward and kisses her again. This time it's just for them, and it's different. Daphne left her hair down for the party, but Pansy's is in her customary ponytail. Daphne grabs it, tugging Pansy's head back, and Pansy lets out a moan in Daphne's mouth that makes them both gasp a little, electrified. This, Daphne realizes, this is it. This is what makes the buzzing stop. This is the most fun she's ever had, and it's scary as fuck, too. In a good way.
No one can see them from here. Daphne slides her hand under Pansy's shirt and Pansy moans again, though she looks guilty about it. Daphne laughs, "Oh my god, your heart is beating so fast," and Pansy kisses her angrily, like it's a betrayal. Her kiss says don't talk about it, just keep going, and Daphne thinks maybe Pansy wants this—maybe all that good behavior keeps her locked up in a cage—so as a favor to her best friend, she decides to be the baddie she pretends to be. She takes off her shirt and Pansy's eyes widen. She takes Pansy's hand and pulls it to her breasts, which yeah, are not very big, because the two of them are both skinny and shaped more like athletes than supermodels. Daphne's palm rests on Pansy's flat stomach, the abs beneath them going firm as Pansy holds her breath.
"It's just me," Daphne says, and she kisses Pansy's neck. Then she kisses Pansy's collarbone. She draws her lips downward, kissing Pansy's cleavage. Her stomach. She pulls up Pansy's dress and Pansy doesn't move. She's wearing Calvin Klein bikini underwear and Daphne pulls them down. Pansy still can't breathe and Daphne leans forward, parting Pansy's thighs. Things are about to get really serious if Daphne lets it.
So she does.
She slides her tongue along Pansy's clit and thinks this is weird, this is so weird, it's hot though, it's so hot, and Pansy gives another moan and buries her fingers in Daphne's hair and Daphne remembers that Pansy's never come before and holy shit, wouldn't it be crazy to do it now? It would be, so Daphne sucks and licks and it's so weird and different because Pansy is so soft here, silky and sweet, even though she's hard muscle everywhere else. Pansy's legs tremble and she pulls Daphne's hair hard and when she comes she practically cries.
Pansy shoves Daphne onto her back and when she works her fingers under Daphne's thong it doesn't hurt this time. Pansy's touch is gentle, stroking, but she won't look away and Daphne is a little embarrassed so she closes her eyes, breathing like she does after the team runs sprints. It feels the same, almost like flying, like winning, like scoring, and she comes so fucking hard and she opens her eyes and Pansy's still staring at her.
"I love you," Pansy says raggedly.
Fuck, Daphne thinks.
Time to run away.
Daphne makes excuses for the rest of the summer and then they go to college. Pansy calls often, every day, and then every week, and then less frequently. Once a month. Then once every other month. Then it's summer again and Daphne doesn't come home because she has a training camp. Her instagram pictures are full of parties and short skirts and Pansy can't tell whether she's more worried about the pretty girls—Daphne's team at UNC and her sorority sisters—or the boys, who seem to always have their hands on Daphne's bare midriff in the pictures. Daphne's eyes are often unfocused, too, just slightly. Daphne almost never calls Pansy, though when she does it's usually at two or three in the morning when she's just getting home.
Their teams rarely play, but senior year they manage it. Pansy comes to Chapel Hill in Harvard crimson, and Daphne looks perfect in that North Carolina baby blue.
"Are you okay?" Pansy asks.
"I'm amazing," says Daphne, who has just finished telling Pansy about how she fucked her hot comparative literature professor on his desk last week. UNC is undefeated this year. Daphne's on top of the world. "Like, seriously. The best."
"Right, but like… are you okay?" Pansy says.
This time Daphne can hear what she means. Her brow furrows.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm just worried about you, Daph," Pansy says. "I just don't want you to, you know. Get lost."
"Meaning?"
"You're—" Pansy hesitates. "They just don't know you like I know you," she says. "I'm just worried, that's all."
Unfortunately Daphne takes this poorly. Pansy can see it, the way Daphne shuts down. She saw it three years ago, too. The last time she saw it everything ended, and it's about to end all over again.
"You don't really know me anymore," Daphne says, and it's mean, and the way Daphne says it—the look on her face—is cutting, designed to stick. Pansy hasn't said anything about how she tried to date one of the girls on her team but then that girl shattered her heart, because she doesn't really trust Daphne anymore with anything that hurts.
UNC wins. Pansy leaves.
Daphne goes to play for the Sol in L.A. and Pansy moves to Chicago to play for the Red Stars. She still calls Daphne every now and then, though Daphne never answers.
"Thinking about you," Pansy says. "Call me back."
She hears on Entertainment Tonight that Daphne has some sort of quickie marriage to some musician with swoopy hair, though it falls apart a couple of months later. Daphne is traded to another team, the Portland Thorns, and then to the Utah Royals. She sits out a few games. People no longer write NSWL highlights about how Daphne is the most talented player of her generation; now the articles are all about Daphne being 'difficult to work with' and how her team has concerns about her health. Daphne tears her ACL the year that Pansy has her best professional season, and when Daphne comes back, she's a little better, closer to her old self. She gets traded again, this time to the Washington Spirit. They encounter each other frequently—it's a small league, obviously—but they never speak. It becomes notorious: Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson, former teammates turned rivals. Two superstars battling to sell out stadiums when they play.
Pansy dates a journalist for three years. They move in together, then it falls apart. Pansy is just looking for a new apartment when she gets the call she's been dreaming about since she was eleven fucking years old: She made the U.S. World Cup team. There's only one problem.
So, her manager tells her, did Daphne Greengrass.
They have a reputation for being nemeses or something, which is Daphne's fault. She never looks at Pansy because looking at Pansy means looking in a mirror, and that's the absolute last thing Daphne wants to do. It has nothing to do with Pansy's game, which is solid, or the fact that Pansy is an outspoken supporter of good things, like women's rights, and Daphne is mostly known for fucking a guy from a British boy band. Things are looking up, but not enough for her to face it. Not enough for her to tell Pansy that Pansy was right all along, and the thing burning inside Daphne has been slowly eating her up.
Their first few practices together are kind of a disaster. The chemistry with the team is all off, and a lot of the girls have their doubts about Daphne to begin with. Daphne's reputation as an athlete is a disaster; she dragged it through the mud herself. The girls look to Pansy, who was just on a magazine cover for a speech she gave about equal pay, instead.
Eventually, after a week of awkward encounters, Daphne and Pansy collide (physically) and then they combust (psychologically) and Daphne swears and Pansy fumes and their coach says get in the locker room, now. Work your shit out, ladies.
So they do.
Daphne throws herself onto the bench in frustration and Pansy lingers in the doorway, hesitating.
"Look," says Pansy, but then she gives up and doesn't say anything else.
They both know it's Daphne's turn to speak. It's been Daphne's turn for years.
What is she supposed to say, I'm sorry? You scared me shitless, Pans. You didn't just make me come that one time when we were drunk in high school, you made me feel special, you made me feel loved, and don't you understand how fucking terrifying that is? Can't you see how badly I take it?
She says the only thing she knows to be true, which isn't much.
"I," Daphne says, "am not okay."
Pansy hesitates another moment and then sits beside her.
"I know," she says.
"I don't know if I've ever been okay."
"I know."
"I was with you, I think. You kept me… balanced. But then—"
"I know."
"It was too much. It was way too much. I'm not good at this. I'm not good."
"You are."
"No, I'm not. Everyone knows I'm not."
"I know what you are."
"You don't know me anymore. You don't know what I turned into."
Daphne wants to cry, which is not very sexy. She doesn't cry much, never has. She only ever cried while watching The Notebook with Pansy, but they were girls then. Stupid.
They sit in silence for a long time before anything breaks it.
"If you don't like where you are," Pansy says quietly, "you can always come back."
"Jesus," Daphne says, only she weeps it, fluidly, mumbling that she's sorry, she's so, so sorry, and Pansy pulls her into her arms and it's a mix of sweat and tears and eyeliner bleeding into the fabric of their uniforms. She sobs and Pansy doesn't have a long ponytail anymore, and Pansy's different now and somehow, Daphne's still the exact same. Still just a fucking mess trying to make people believe she's something different.
When Pansy kisses Daphne she gasps into her mouth, sobs a little, kisses her back with desperation. Pansy slides her hand under Daphne's jersey and manages a hoarse laugh of, "You're not even breathing." Daphne swallows and tugs Pansy's jersey free, peels her sports bra off. Pansy wrestles her into the showers and slides to her knees, trailing kisses down her torso, and Daphne is ashamed to tell her how different this feels. How many people she has been wrong about. Pansy most of all.
They let the water run long after they're done, hair slicked back from Pansy's temples while it lies matted around Daphne's shoulders. This, success, the World Cup—this is what they talked about doing when they were girls, and now they are women and doing a terrible job of it. Or at least Daphne is.
"I've always loved you," Daphne says sadly, because she knows it's about ten years too late, but Pansy only looks at her, half-smiling.
"I told you," Pansy says. "You can always come back."
a/n: Here we are in week 3! Are you still alive? Barely? Same.