Tracey Davis {can kick your ass} (tracingadavis) wrote in reduxpitch, @ 2016-02-17 03:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !thread, character: tracey davis, retired character: daphne greengrass |
WHO: Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass
WHAT: Look we don't want to talk about it
WHEN: THIS IS VERY LATE {backdated} 31 January, 2002; laaate
WHERE: Daphne's apartment; Prince's Grove FLAT 1A, Knockturn Alley
RATING|STATUS: Fade to black sexytimes | Completed log
Daphne’s apartment was quiet. The lights were off inside, but the street lights and neon signs from the alley bathed Daphne in orange. She laid on her couch, an old green and silver blanket around her body as she stared at the three bottles on the table before her. One, an unopened white wine, two others the scotch. One, empty after weeks of occasional sips and that night of heavier drinking, the other just started. Next to the bottles, her opened journal still showing her argument with Oliver. When she heard Tracey at the door, she dragged herself off of the couch and went to open up. Ever since the wand debacle she’d taken to using all the locks on her door, which meant that in her slightly drunk and belligerent state she was having some trouble getting them all open. When she did though, she couldn’t help but smile- and smile wide. “Hey,” she said, seeing Tracey there. Tracey looked beautiful, she always did. Even when Tracey was mad; actually Daphne thought she was even prettier then. Daphne grabbed one of Tracey’s hands and pulled her inside, letting the heavy door shut with a slam before she leaned into the dragon keeper and kissed her. -- Honestly, Tracey didn’t know what she was doing. Well. She knew what she was literally doing. She was going over to Daphne’s to drink and probably to fuck her brains out. That was apparently what they were doing now. It had been different in school. Though they’d still met in secret--which Tracey was honestly okay with, both now and back then--Daphne had never denied to her what they were. They hadn’t put a label to it, and they’d denied it to others, much as Tracey hadn’t liked it, but when they were together, they knew what it was. And it seemed to the (natural) blonde that the other girl had only been ashamed because of what other people would say, not because she herself felt that way. Clearly she’d been wrong, if their breakup meant anything at all. As it turned out, Daphne had been ashamed of everything after all, ashamed of her. That the person she’d spent so much time with was a girl, her friend, and not the man society said she was supposed to be. That was the part that hurt worst. Not that she’d been rejected, because Tracey could handle that. If someone didn’t want to be with her, that was fine. But when the reason was hypocritical homophobia? It hurt and it made her angry. She’d taken off for Romania shortly after that, after making a half-hearted attempt at heterosexuality just to see what the big deal was with the penis (she still didn’t get it), and engaged in three years’ worth of one-night-stands with random women, both in Romania and whenever she was home. And it was fun, she got some bragging rights--how many others could say they got to enjoy a foreign film star’s bed?--but it wasn’t. Part of her wanted someone to wake up next to. The same someone to wake up next to, morning after morning. Of course, she had plenty of reasons to believe that would never happen--her lycanthropic condition being at the top. If she thought Daphne was ashamed of her now, she couldn’t even imagine what the other girl would say if she learned that once a month Tracey had the power to rip people apart with her teeth, and that she’d probably enjoy it. So she stayed silent about her wants, and buried them deep down. Domesticity was not a thing that Tracey would be afforded. Instead, she called old flames and pissed off ex-girlfriends enough to get to spend the night with them. It didn’t make her happy, and she didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to keep it up before she became such an unpleasant person that no one would ever want to spend any quality time with her, but that was a worry for another day. Daphne’s greeting that night was much like she’d thought it would be--mostly. The act of pressing her back into the now-shut door, yes, but not the way she smiled at her, like she was actually happy to see her. That didn’t seem right. Part of her didn’t care. Daphne would be her own undoing. She’d chosen to break up with her. She should not care one bit about the feelings between them. That part of their relationship was over. And yet, the rest of her did care. Not quite as a friend, because they hadn’t been just friends for a very long time, but because she was confused. Daphne was never happy anymore to see her. It was probably the alcohol, but Tracey really didn’t have any idea how alcohol could make her happy to see her unless it completely erased the last almost-four years and made Daphne think they were back in 7th year, still together. “I am not drunk enough for this,” she said aloud, pushing Daphne away and walking further into the flat to find the alcohol. What she meant was, she wasn’t drunk enough for her inner dialogue, but it probably came across that she wasn’t drunk enough for Daphne to be kissing her. Which was also true, but probably not in the way Daphne would take it. Whatever. -- Daphne felt a little crestfallen at that. She stood near the door, her feet cold from the wood floors and her legs shivering. Dressed in only a white shirt, she had sort of expected Tracey to help her warm up. Padding over to Tracey she sat back on the couch, crossing her long legs and watching as Tracey began to drink. She tucked hair behind her ear. The last time they’d met up, there had been very little in the way of words. Instead they’d just fucked, and it had felt good. Daphne hadn’t gotten off in years, men didn’t do a great job of it, and Daphne had fallen back under Tracey’s spell so easily. Wouldn’t you? Part of Daphne wanted to talk about Oliver, about what he’d said to Daphne. But she knew Tracey would just yell that Oliver was right. That Daphne was gay, a dyke, in love with girls. A girl. This girl. When Tracey finally found her spot, Daphne moved over, moving Tracey’s blond hair to the side and kissing the woman’s neck several times. “You smell the same.” --- Goddammit. Five seconds in and Tracey had her eyes closed and head tilted away, exposing more of her neck. She really was a sucker for that, as Daphne knew all too well. But she told herself it wasn’t because of who it was, it was because of what she was doing. Daphne was doing this on purpose, knowing that Tracey wouldn’t push her away. Because this was a bootycall, and nothing else. Daphne wasn’t actually ready to admit that she liked to have sex with other women. That would be asking for too much. Abandoning the alcohol, Tracey turned her face toward the other girl’s, and brought a hand up to hold her chin so she could kiss her. It started out slow, but Daphne always made her hungry, so it was mere seconds before she was pushing herself into her lap, straddling her hips and edging up the white shirt so her fingertips could skim across her skin. “You taste like men,” she said bitterly against Daphne’s mouth. She’d just have to do something about that, wouldn’t she? -- A little circle had come around them, a sacred one where Daphne wasn’t scared of saying what was in her heart right then or just doing what felt right. She wrapped her arms around Tracey’s figure, feeling that heat from the girl who had haunted all her dreams for so long. Daphne had left Tracey, but Tracey had never really left Daphne. She’d flitted through Daphne’s mind every day, hidden around the corners of Daphne’s apartment, and left an invisible imprint in a mattress she’d never laid on. The reality of Tracey’s existence and history were eternal, and bittersweet. She kissed Tracey again after the woman spoke, determined to get the taste of men out of her mouth. Determined to make Tracey happy, she kept kissing her, her arms tight around the dragon tamer. Quidditch had changed Daphne’s body. What had been strong but soft before was all muscle, what she’d carefully plucked and made up with makeup were left alone. Daphne was no less a woman, just more comfortable. -- Tracey had a lot of reservations about Daphne. Not physically, obviously. Tracey didn’t need a lot of trust in someone to have sex with them. Sex was just...sex. It was just bodies and movement and base, primal instincts that the (natural) blonde didn’t like to hide. There was really very little that Tracey hid from people, yet at the same time, so much that she did. She knew that she reacted in anger to things because it was easier than other emotions, though she did have a lot of anger in general in her. She hid behind it, used it like a crutch, because it was easier to make people feel bad for making her feel things than to have the feelings themselves. Anger made being with Daphne a lot easier too. She didn’t want to be angry at the other woman, but she didn’t really feel like she had a choice. She’d opened up to her, essentially given her her heart, and she’d tread on it without a second thought. And for what? To be what her family wanted her to be? And now she was good enough to fuck when Daphne was angry or lonely, but not good enough to actually be with. That stung in a way Tracey hadn’t let anyone else do to her since their breakup. Antiquated gender roles, stereotypes, and sexism said that she was promiscuous, that she had too much sex, especially since she rarely stayed the night; some of them, she was friends with outside of the sex, and that was great for the companionship she craved, but she’d never really wanted it from anyone other than the girl currently underneath her. It was really a shame she wouldn’t trust Daphne even if she could commit to her. Which was why it was hard for her to handle Daphne smiling at her and being happy to see her, why she had to keep the other girl from saying things. It hurt. To be used. To be a secret. To feel like this was the reason she didn’t want to tell anyone about her monthly condition. The simple answer to those feelings was to run her hands up along Daphne’s sides, pushing the fabric of her shirt out of the way and pulling it over her head. Her own shirt joined it on the floor as she went back to Daphne’s mouth, her fingers in her shorter hair at the nape of her neck. But that wasn’t enough, and the couch wasn’t wide or comfortable enough, so it wasn’t long before Tracey was grabbing her by the hand and pulling her off the couch toward Daphne’s bed; she let go of the other woman just long enough to shrug out of her own pants, before turning back to her and pulling her around so she could push her back onto the sheets. Tracey liked to think that she was very good at making a girl forget about previous lovers. She took her time, and she knew Daphne very well; their previous encounter had proven that her former roommate’s tastes hadn’t changed much, so there was almost no learning curve. It was almost like they’d picked up right where they left off. Tracey, though, had come into her own as a lover, and learned quite a few new tricks; she was fairly confident that by the time she was finished, Daphne had never, and probably would never, be with anyone quite like her. And that was really the point. Part of her hoped that if she demonstrated she had something that heterosexuality couldn’t offer her, then they’d be together and Tracey could stop being so bitter about her. But she also didn’t trust Daphne enough to believe she wouldn’t just go back to pretending to like men. For a long time after it was over, and they were just lying on the bed, Tracey considered breaking her cuddling guideline (because it wasn’t really a rule that she didn’t do it). She knew she could get wrapped back up in Daphne so very easily, and that was the reason she decided to sit up and dangle her feet off the bed as she looked around for where the rest of her clothing had fallen. They’d had their fun, Daphne would be getting pretty sober by now, and it was about time to leave. Before more feelings arose. -- Sex with Tracey felt as natural as breathing. It wasn’t easy, but it was comfortable, and Daphne was pretty sure that when Tracey touched her that their bodies become fire. She leaned into the other woman and drank her up, the softness of the mattress seeming almost wrong in comparison to the things they were doing. The alcohol wore off slowly. When Tracey began to pull away, Daphne felt closer to sober than drunk, and she also found herself sad. Head on the pillow, she pulled the comforter closer to her chest, covering her breasts and neck. Daphne followed the werewolf’s movements with her eyes, not speaking until Tracey began to get her clothes. “You don’t have to leave,” she said, surprised by the own sound of her voice. She sat up a little, her short hair a mess in every damn direction. “I have some food. Real food, not… work out shakes.” Her fridge was 90% the crap Oliver Wood made her swallow down, but some was actual food like chicken and rice. -- Tracey almost laughed. Didn’t have to leave? Leaving was what she did. She rarely stayed with anyone after; there was never really a reason to, unless she went over intending to stay. She certainly didn’t go to Elladora because she wanted companionship. And Daphne...well. They hadn’t had that in almost four years now. She looked back at the other girl, a mixture of confusion and amusement on her face. She didn’t really know where to start where Daphne was concerned. For the longest time, she’d wanted her bed to be their bed, to never have a reason to leave it. She’d longed for domesticity with her. But things were different now. Tracey didn’t trust Daphne. She’d certainly sleep with her, but she wouldn’t let herself get caught up in their romance again. They’d been down that road. Until Daphne was ready to come out and accept who she was, Tracey had no real place in her life. “Food doesn’t have anything to do with it, love.” She stood up and retrieved her underwear and pants from the floor, slipping the smaller piece of fabric up over her hips before turning back to Daphne. “Give me a convincing argument to stay in bed with a straight girl and I’ll stay.” -- Daphne sat up a little straighter and let the sheets fall down, exposing herself. Even as she spoke, she knew Tracey would leave. She knew exactly what the other woman wanted to hear, but the quidditch player couldn’t bring herself to say the words I’m not straight and be honest with Tracey and the world. Or even just herself. “Because I look like this and the bed is very cold without you.” She closed her mouth and waited for the cutting remark that was sure to come, sure to cut right down to her heart and undo all the happiness and ecstasy that she and Tracey had created that night. But after a split second, Daphne spoke again. The shy, quiet girl of Hogwarts had died a lot time ago, and Daphne wasn’t about to turn back into that demure lady again. She’d given up on her. “But that’s not a convincing argument to you, is it? Shame. You know where the door is.” She knew it was mean, to show that she knew exactly what was wanted, and to take it away. For what reason? It wasn’t as if Tracey would run to Rita Skeeter and whisper that Daphne was a dyke. At least, Daphne was pretty sure she wouldn’t. Daphne, while not shy and quiet, was still scared. Scared shitless. -- Tracey couldn’t help it. She laughed loudly at the argument. Daphne was right in thinking what she wanted to hear, but Tracey also hadn’t expected. Though if she were being honest with herself, she wouldn’t even have really known what to do with it if she had admitted to liking women. Sure, she’d have crawled back into bed with her, but would that have solved anything? Would it have made her trust her? Not in the slightest. All it would have done, probably, was make things worse in the long run when Daphne let her down again. “Oh sweet girl, I could do much better than that,” came Tracey’s reply with a shake of her head, knowing that she was being unnecessarily mean. That didn’t negate the fact that it was, actually, very true. Tracey did not hurt for bed partners, and she knew she had the ability to be as picky as she wanted. If she wanted only tall, leggy, voluptuous women, she could have them. She didn’t, because she enjoyed women of different shapes and sizes, but she was well aware that she was the kind of attractive that could be picky if she chose to be so. No, personality mattered to Tracey just as much as looks, depending on what she was looking for that particular evening. Sometimes she wanted demure, someone to spend more time with and cuddle, and sometimes she wanted fast and hot and a little rough, which was when she called on Elladora. She knew she could have all of that with Daphne if her former housemate would open up (and if she could trust her), and that was what made the whole thing that much more tragic as she made her way back through the flat, collecting her clothing and putting them on as she went. She and Daphne could have had everything, probably. They were just standing in their own way. |