Pairing: Antonin Dolohov x Pansy Parkinson
Setting: Modern, non-magical AU
Word Count: 1,013
It’s a hot, humid night in late July.
“Why are we here,” Pansy bleats. She glances around the interior of the bar—which had looked like a fucking barn from the outside—and sees thick reels of obviously fake rope coiled like snail shells along the walls, as well as a pleather-saddled mechanical bull lurking in the far corner. “Daphne. Daphne. Why are we here.”
Daphne blinks. “Like…here? Existentially? Or—”
“No,” Pansy interrupts, sneering at a girl who’s wearing a tacky red bandana as a dress. “Like, here, here. Specifically, this dumpster fire of a fucking drinking establishment in the fucking 909.”
“Oh,” Daphne coos, nodding sagely. “You mean here. I just—I thought it would be fun to do something different tonight, you know? Like. Pansy. They have square dancing here. Look at all the cowboy boots.”
Pansy pointedly inspects Daphne’s twelve-hundred dollar Louboutins. “Fun,” she repeats, acidly. “Right. Super fun. Flannel shirts and illegally lifted pick-up trucks. Bathrooms that smell like Bud Light and cough syrup. Remember that scene? In that weird Reese Witherspoon movie with the Alabama people? Where she’s, like, you brought your baby to a bar—”
Pansy’s cut off by an elbow—large, leather-clad, masculine—catching her in the ribs.