Lansy One Shots

Unnaturally Natural

Summary: Pansy's having a bad day. Hugs ensue. (Or, two girls being sappy and in love)

Ship: LunaLovegood/PansyParkinson

All credit goes to goldwfish on Ao3

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A hug is a loud touch. It screams at each and every patch of skin touched, coaxing out the terror of being touched, of being known, disguised by a bone-deep need for the warmth of another human body.

A hug is loud, but its reassurances are soft, its whispers breathed in a way that soothes so completely that there's no choice but for Pansy to melt in it, no matter how much she doesn't want to. When Luna hugs her it's like the most beautiful flurry of sensation, Luna's entire being wrapped around her like a breeze to a windchime, making her body hum in a contented lullaby.

Pansy was never one for physical affection, but there's something about the Ravenclaw that is, and she suspects always will be, an exception. Maybe it's her hair, with its soft, thick waves and the way it always has something stuck in it, a flower, a paintbrush, her wand. Maybe it's her eyes, the way they're always hooded just so, making their gaze soft and yet so bright and curious all the time. Or maybe it's just her, her long limbs with their acres of pale skin, the way her tall frame wraps around Pansy in a way reminiscent of a vine to its trellis, the way her face buries in her neck, making her giggle as she blows a silly raspberry on the skin.

Maybe it's the way she makes Pansy feel calm for once, like there's nothing in the world that could bother them, as long as she stays here with Luna and her paintings, with her strange creatures and forever-interesting conversation. When it's just them, in Luna's tiny yet homey flat, she feels like she can finally breathe again.

It's 5:42 in the afternoon, the sun is already going down, Pansy's hair is horribly out of place, her skirt has a coffee stain on it from this morning, and it's cold enough outside to freeze even her worst temper tantrum into mere resentment and dejection. It is not a good day.

Her heels click on stone as she walks, the sound echoing noisily in the small hallway leading to Luna's flat. When she opens the door, it's to the sight of Luna standing before a giant canvas leaning on the living room wall, patches of vibrant paint splotched on in an approximation of a grassy hillside scene. The colors are all wrong, neon reds and oranges where soft greens or blues should be, and there's nothing natural about the nature it's supposed to be portraying, but somehow, when viewed as one picture, it works. It contrasts where it should complement, is sharp and precise and swirled and messy in equal measure, but it works.

Pansy supposes it could be a metaphor for their relationship, if she were to think about it. But she won't, because she is tired and cranky and wants to sink into oblivion.

She kicks off her heels and crosses the room, planting a kiss on Luna's soft, slightly paint splattered hair, before unceremoniously dumping her coat and bag beside the couch. She sits down heavily on the cushions, closing her eyes, breathing.

There's a shift and a shuffle, the sound of feet clad in soft woolen socks walking into the tiny kitchen adjacent. A tap running, a click, then minutes later, water hissing in a kettle. She's humming a song, and her voice is yet another windchime.

In Pansy's mind, Luna is made of them, a different windchime for every mood, for every moment. They all sound different, and Pansy thinks this one is one of her favorites. A melody of quiet contentment, everyday life. It's all terribly sappy and domestic, she's sure, but she can't quite bring herself to care as she finally opens her eyes.

Luna's standing in front of her, a mug of tea in her hand, holding it out to her with a smile and eyes that speak a question. Pansy answers by taking the mug from her, not caring that a bright yellow handprint is left behind on the white porcelain. Her fingertips touch the wet paint, smearing it, and she lifts it to her mouth, taking a sip.

It's perfect, as it always is when Luna makes it, and does wonders for the ache that was previously spreading throughout her chest, constricting everything in frustration and stress. In its place is warmth, simple and sweet, and it makes Pansy reach out her free hand to grip Luna's wrist, pulling her until she plops down on the couch next to her.

One more sip, then another, and another. The mug is set aside carefully, and then Pansy is wrapping herself around Luna, reveling in her warmth and comfort, her loud and quiet. She's in her lap, limbs curled around her body, and Pansy breathes in hair that smells like pies just out of the oven. Their bodies together are one soft entanglement, arms and legs and chests and stomachs meeting, touching, taking and giving. There's nothing except the two of them, and in the calm, Pansy wonders how she ever got so lucky to be able to touch the stars.

There's paint on Pansy's clothes now, but she doesn't care. They pull back from their tight embrace just enough to look at each other, and Luna's face is so open, her lips upturned serenely and her eyes gazing steadily back at her. Her cheeks are pink and soft in her smile, and Pansy takes her face in her hands, marvelling at the giddiness that wells in her very soul, occurring at the simple proximity to her light and love.

And then Luna plants her face in Pansy's neck, blowing a raspberry there, long fingers digging into Pansy's sides, wiggling until she's howling, her bad mood chased away by mirth and laughter. She pushes with her hands to try and get Luna to stop, and she does eventually, Pansy's laughter diminishing to snorts and then huffs of air. Luna wraps her arms around her once more.

"Better now?"

"So much better. Thank you."

Luna smiles, and leans to press their foreheads together.

"My stardust."

Pansy warms, blushing and smiling despite herself. It's a silly nickname, but every time she hears it, her soul overflows, not able to contain all the love it harbors. She never thought that she'd ever be the kind of person to admit her feelings out loud, but Luna has always been, and will forever be, the exception.

"My moonbeam."

There's laughter and hugs, loud touches and soft comforts. Paint swirls, wind blows, windchimes sing their songs. Steam from mugs twirl to an unnaturally natural melody, colors and sounds blending impossibly. Raspberries in simple pies complement silly games, the perfect seasoning to sweeten a bitter day. In the moment, warmth.

And for now, everything's alright.