Lansy One Shots

Breakfast

Summary: She never liked admitting weaknesses to subs. It ruined the dynamic, sometimes. But honesty begets trust, so she took an even breath before she said, "I'd never been called that before... Never realised how much I'd like it."

Ship: LunaLovegood/PansyParkinson

All credit goes to bahkeks on Ao3

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Pansy loved Wednesdays at The Forest.

There were no dyke bars in wixen Britain. There were at least a few muggle ones, but she avoided them when possible. As much as she'd like to think she'd evolved since her Hogwarts days, she still found fucking muggles to not be worth the hassle of having to forgo nifty privileges, like the ability to travel home in an instant, or conjure self-tying ropes without having to study knots. She still felt an intense wave of embarrassment when she remembered the night someone handed her something they called their "wand". She stared at the oddly shaped club in her hand and promptly tried to cast with it. She may have still been a little drunk.

But at least she had The Forest. Every other day of the week, it was one of a handful of gay wixen bars in London, but on Witch Wednesdays, it belonged to the dykes.

Hooking up could still be a little tricky sometimes. If she ran into someone she recognised from Hogwarts, she was always greeted with narrowed eyes and a general look of disdain. But when she approached Luna Lovegood on the dance floor, her eyes only showed delight, and her smile was shy and inviting.

Pansy felt oddly disappointed, but tried not to let it show. Luna clearly didn't remember who she was. Even though she preferred that Luna didn't recognise her (and remember the brat she used to be), she couldn't help but feel slightly wounded.

To be fair, she tried to remind herself, we were a year apart and in different houses, so it's not like we shared classes or a common room.

But she'd remembered Luna. How could you not? There were her... eccentricities, of course. No doubt fifteen-year-old Pansy had crueler words for it. But Luna was also radiant. She looked like the sun, and Pansy would've wanted to stare until her eyes burned. She couldn't help but stare now, watching her on the dance floor, seemingly on her own, moving her body with the music with reckless abandon and waving her arms carelessly in the air.

Draco posited that she had a predilection for "pretty little blondes who can put up with your bullshit," which was annoyingly accurate, given her (and their) history. To which she retorted, "Like you're one to talk, with your penchant for black-haired beauties who could glare you into submission." He'd shut up pretty quickly after that.

To be even fairer, even if Luna had remembered her enough to recognise her on a good day, the lights at The Forest were dark and erratic, the music so loud you could barely think, and she probably had at least a couple of drinks, if her loose interpretation of dancing was any indication.

Pansy herself was four shots of Forest Firewhiskey into the night, and later, with the taste of Luna's mouth on her tongue, the feeling of her tentative touch growing more and more desperate as they danced, she was becoming intoxicated in more ways than one.

She was at least sober enough to know to use the floo at the lobby instead of trying to apparate them both to her flat under the influence. Sober enough to ask Luna what she liked and what she didn't. Sober enough to ask for a word (Snorkack, whatever that was) and commit it to memory before she conjured ropes to tie her wrists to the headboard.

But the intoxication sank deeper when Pansy finally pressed her fingers inside her. She'd been looking forward to it all night, her fingers itching while they snogged, and danced and snogged, her hands sliding tantalisingly higher up her thigh.