Leigh!fic- Desert Rose (1/1)- Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Title: Desert Rose (1/1)
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Characters: Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: G
Word Count: 383
Summary: In the marketplace in Casablanca, Ron watches his mark
Author's Notes: This was my first entry for ronpansy_ldws, and it won first place! :D The prompt was either this picture, or this quote: "He liked to observe emotions; they were like red lanterns strung along the dark unknown of another's personality, marking vulnerable points." I hope y'all enjoy this!
The marketplace in central Casablanca was bustling with activity. Vendors, tourists, and locals alike mingled, their voices rising in a mix of Spanish, French, and Arabic that was as colorful as the jilbāb worn by the Islamic women.
Blue eyes tracked the movements of a woman as she moved through the crowds, sidestepping children and animals as she meandered through the stalls. This was not the first time Ron had been sent to track a person under the Ministry’s scrutiny, but it was his first following this particular one.
The desert climate suited Pansy Parkinson, he noted. The pale skin of her face had colored slightly with the sun, and the red ḥijāb she wore framed the tendrils of black hair that peaked out from beneath the colorful cloth. It was a shame she had it covered, but he did not need to see it to remember the way the silken strands felt beneath his fingers.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. Leaving the country without notification was a violation of her parole, and she knew that. But his former lover delighted in thumbing her nose at the Ministry, so here he was, trekking across Morocco after her.
Atlas Shrugged lay open on his lap, but the words on the page remained unread. He preferred to watch her barter with the vendors. This was not the Pansy Parkinson whose face had been plastered all over the Daily Prophet after her trial had concluded, with her icy blue eyes and immaculate façade.
No, this Pansy’s face was alive with emotions as she spoke with a spice vendor in a mixture of flawless French and broken Arabic. She reminded him of his Pansy, who let her emotions rush through her eyes when they were together.
The woman handed Pansy a small ma’amoul, and Ron was unable to keep the memories at bay when she took a bite, eyes closing in pleasure. He’d seen that look on her face before, when she’d shared his bed.
Taking a sip of his Turkish coffee, Ron watched her hand the woman a silver coin and leave, fading into the crowd. Lips twitching, he set the cup down and turned his attention to his book.
His orders didn’t say when he had to return her to British soil, after all.
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Characters: Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: G
Word Count: 383
Summary: In the marketplace in Casablanca, Ron watches his mark
Author's Notes: This was my first entry for ronpansy_ldws, and it won first place! :D The prompt was either this picture, or this quote: "He liked to observe emotions; they were like red lanterns strung along the dark unknown of another's personality, marking vulnerable points." I hope y'all enjoy this!
The marketplace in central Casablanca was bustling with activity. Vendors, tourists, and locals alike mingled, their voices rising in a mix of Spanish, French, and Arabic that was as colorful as the jilbāb worn by the Islamic women.
Blue eyes tracked the movements of a woman as she moved through the crowds, sidestepping children and animals as she meandered through the stalls. This was not the first time Ron had been sent to track a person under the Ministry’s scrutiny, but it was his first following this particular one.
The desert climate suited Pansy Parkinson, he noted. The pale skin of her face had colored slightly with the sun, and the red ḥijāb she wore framed the tendrils of black hair that peaked out from beneath the colorful cloth. It was a shame she had it covered, but he did not need to see it to remember the way the silken strands felt beneath his fingers.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. Leaving the country without notification was a violation of her parole, and she knew that. But his former lover delighted in thumbing her nose at the Ministry, so here he was, trekking across Morocco after her.
Atlas Shrugged lay open on his lap, but the words on the page remained unread. He preferred to watch her barter with the vendors. This was not the Pansy Parkinson whose face had been plastered all over the Daily Prophet after her trial had concluded, with her icy blue eyes and immaculate façade.
No, this Pansy’s face was alive with emotions as she spoke with a spice vendor in a mixture of flawless French and broken Arabic. She reminded him of his Pansy, who let her emotions rush through her eyes when they were together.
The woman handed Pansy a small ma’amoul, and Ron was unable to keep the memories at bay when she took a bite, eyes closing in pleasure. He’d seen that look on her face before, when she’d shared his bed.
Taking a sip of his Turkish coffee, Ron watched her hand the woman a silver coin and leave, fading into the crowd. Lips twitching, he set the cup down and turned his attention to his book.
His orders didn’t say when he had to return her to British soil, after all.