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Title: All That Jazz
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Lavender/Pansy
Warnings: Werewolf!Lavender
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: They've got a dream to purchase, and they're not afraid to flaunt their assets to get it.
AN: This was written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rarepair_shorts 2015 Ficathon. A wonderful French translation by Zorro on ManyFics.net can be found here.
She leans against the bar and watches; listens. Lavender is swaying as she sings, one of her hands curled around the microphone stand – just a prop, but one that she’d insisted on for a reason – while the other flutters in the air around her, dancing between her hair and the neckline of her dress. Her blazing yellow eyes peer out at the audience, and even from her seat by the bar, Pansy can see her locking gazes with punters just long enough to make them feel special – like they might be the ones she takes home tonight.
Her lips curl. It’s a nice fantasy for them; it brings in business.
Fantasy is all it’ll ever be.
Lavender half-growls some of her words and drags her nails up her thigh, pulling up the hem of her dress just enough to show the lace of her garter, and there’s a collective shiver in the room. Werewolves are dangerous, exotic, and everyone here knows that there’s a bite hidden behind the fall of Lavender’s curls. They know who she is and what she is, and none of that stops them from wanting. It doesn’t stop Pansy, certainly, and she’s the one that Lavender will go home with.
For the briefest of moments, Lavender’s gaze locks on her instead of on a nameless somebody; Pansy licks her lips and smiles. There’s a promise in those eyes. It’s a promise of painted claws scratching down her back; of wet lace clinging to full curves and hot breath against her neck. Pansy presses her thighs together, tears her gaze away, and pours a finger of whiskey for herself just to have something to do with her hands.
None of the punters notice; they’re all too fixated on the stage.
Fuck.
It’s just like in school. Lavender’s still a wet dream wrapped in red and gold, only now it’s satin and silk instead of dowdy school robes, and Pansy doesn’t have to hide her ogling behind her Potions textbook. But Lavender’s still the centre of her attention – the centre of everyone’s attention. Her voice is soaring to new heights, and goose bumps break out on Pansy’s arms in response. She downs her drink; takes the bottle of whiskey and tops up a few of the customers’ drinks while she’s at it. They slide their silver across the bar without comment and she whisks it away.
Their savings have grown since Lavender started performing.
There’s a plan, one that they talk about on quiet evenings over wine and take-out. A little cottage in the country, with a thatched roof and a view of rolling hills from every window. It’ll be surrounded by fields, and there’ll be a barn out the back for brewing potions. They’ll be able to Floo to London from there – Lavender likes singing too much to give it up and Pansy’s grown fond of bartending; the gossip alone… They won’t have to live in a pokey little flat above Knockturn Alley with neighbours that complain about the screams that echo through the thin walls every full moon. (Even with Wolfsbane the transformation is agony.)
The song changes. A wave of customers come to the bar for their next round, and Pansy greets them with a blood-red smile on her painted lips and a neckline low enough to show the lace trim of her bra.
Lavender’s aren’t the only assets they’re flaunting in order to get their way, and Pansy…well. She can’t deny that she likes the attention too.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Lavender/Pansy
Warnings: Werewolf!Lavender
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: They've got a dream to purchase, and they're not afraid to flaunt their assets to get it.
AN: This was written for the
rarepair_shorts 2015 Ficathon. A wonderful French translation by Zorro on ManyFics.net can be found here.She leans against the bar and watches; listens. Lavender is swaying as she sings, one of her hands curled around the microphone stand – just a prop, but one that she’d insisted on for a reason – while the other flutters in the air around her, dancing between her hair and the neckline of her dress. Her blazing yellow eyes peer out at the audience, and even from her seat by the bar, Pansy can see her locking gazes with punters just long enough to make them feel special – like they might be the ones she takes home tonight.
Her lips curl. It’s a nice fantasy for them; it brings in business.
Fantasy is all it’ll ever be.
Lavender half-growls some of her words and drags her nails up her thigh, pulling up the hem of her dress just enough to show the lace of her garter, and there’s a collective shiver in the room. Werewolves are dangerous, exotic, and everyone here knows that there’s a bite hidden behind the fall of Lavender’s curls. They know who she is and what she is, and none of that stops them from wanting. It doesn’t stop Pansy, certainly, and she’s the one that Lavender will go home with.
For the briefest of moments, Lavender’s gaze locks on her instead of on a nameless somebody; Pansy licks her lips and smiles. There’s a promise in those eyes. It’s a promise of painted claws scratching down her back; of wet lace clinging to full curves and hot breath against her neck. Pansy presses her thighs together, tears her gaze away, and pours a finger of whiskey for herself just to have something to do with her hands.
None of the punters notice; they’re all too fixated on the stage.
Fuck.
It’s just like in school. Lavender’s still a wet dream wrapped in red and gold, only now it’s satin and silk instead of dowdy school robes, and Pansy doesn’t have to hide her ogling behind her Potions textbook. But Lavender’s still the centre of her attention – the centre of everyone’s attention. Her voice is soaring to new heights, and goose bumps break out on Pansy’s arms in response. She downs her drink; takes the bottle of whiskey and tops up a few of the customers’ drinks while she’s at it. They slide their silver across the bar without comment and she whisks it away.
Their savings have grown since Lavender started performing.
There’s a plan, one that they talk about on quiet evenings over wine and take-out. A little cottage in the country, with a thatched roof and a view of rolling hills from every window. It’ll be surrounded by fields, and there’ll be a barn out the back for brewing potions. They’ll be able to Floo to London from there – Lavender likes singing too much to give it up and Pansy’s grown fond of bartending; the gossip alone… They won’t have to live in a pokey little flat above Knockturn Alley with neighbours that complain about the screams that echo through the thin walls every full moon. (Even with Wolfsbane the transformation is agony.)
The song changes. A wave of customers come to the bar for their next round, and Pansy greets them with a blood-red smile on her painted lips and a neckline low enough to show the lace trim of her bra.
Lavender’s aren’t the only assets they’re flaunting in order to get their way, and Pansy…well. She can’t deny that she likes the attention too.
