3some_mod (3some_mod) wrote in pimp_my_3some, @ 2007-07-04 17:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | bowman wright, fic post |
"Primary Colours" by Bowman Wright (VK/FD/CD; VK/FW/BW; others. NC17)
Original poster: bowmanwright
Title: Primary Colours
Author: Bowman Wright
Threesomes and pairings: Viktor/Fleur/Cedric; Viktor/Fleur/Bill; Fleur/Charlie; Fleur OMCs; Fleur/Bill
Kink/Prompt: Double penetration; greyscale
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Obviously: Threesome and DP. Underage sex.
Summary: Once he's part-werewolf, Bill struggles with Fleur's past until they work through his issues.
Author's Notes and Disclaimer: Thanks to C for the beta. I don't own the rights to the characters or situations.
Molly Weasley believes Bill and Fleur were introduced by a mutual friend.
This is, under a slightly loose interpretation, true. Bill and Charlie are friends as well as brothers, and Charlie and Fleur had enough fun together to qualify as 'friends.'
This is relevant to tonight's events because it is the genesis of everything.
"So, I have a weird proposition," Charlie said, brushing off dirty hands on worn denims as he sauntered into the living room. "Not a proposition, really, I don't guess, but, well, maybe."
"Oh?" Bill was reading a study on cleansing traditions related to distillation of acids to be used in ritual bindings; he only half looked up.
"It's about a girl."
"You have a proposition about a girl?"
"I told you, not exactly, see, you remember the girl in the tournament."
Bill crinkled his face, puzzled. "The French bird?"
"Yes, that one. You remember at the end."
"That she left the maze, sure. Why?"
"Yeah, well. We'd spoken after the dragons and she was all upset after about how hard she failed and I don't know what else and anyway fuck, Veela, so after the dust settled I let her talk me into a sympathy shag of sorts. I mean, not that she needs pity, because hell, she was a champion and all, so it wasn't a hard sell, but that's not the point."
"And you want advice on how to tell Mum you got some French Veela pregnant?"
"God, no. I think I've been doing this long enough I'm familiar with how not to… no. Anyway. Here's the thing. We've stayed in touch over the summer."
"In touch? Literally, I expect." Bill tossed aside the report, intrigued and also entertained by Charlie's apparent discomfort which was itself pretty seriously odd because Charlie was the least uncomfortable-about-sex person he'd ever met.
"Pervert. Though, yes. But between fucks, which by the way, that Veela thing? Shit, is that ever true. I'd willingly get it up every hour on the hour 'round the clock, and screw food and sleep and anything else that might interfere. Fortunately, she knows it and doesn't… anyway. So between the times she's squeezing my brain out my dick, we talk, and, er, I think you and she would get along."
"…What?"
"Seriously. I mean, not that I wouldn't be happy to keep fucking her because good lord, comprehensive skills, that one, but I kind of think. Shit. Okay, I am not Mum and don't you say I am but I think you should go out with her and not in some fucked up I-want-to-share-a-bird-with-my-brother kind of way."
"You want to set me up with the girl you're banging."
"Basically. I mean, if you hit it off, obviously I wouldn't be banging her any more, and I'd be more than a little jealous of the number of ways and times she was certainly riding you, but it's just, she and I, we're just a good lay to each other. But she's smart as hell, and interested in the same kinds of shit you are." Charlie picked up the tossed-aside report. "Distillation of… yes, see? I bet she'd go right for this shit. You could be a whole lot more than a lot of really good--really good, you better know I love you to be offering to give it up--sex."
Bill stared, waiting for Charlie's grin to crack wide open and for him to laugh, but he was entirely serious.
He thought about saying no, because it was weird, but in the end, he took the offer.
The first time Charlie visited Bill--and their mother didn't need to know Charlie sometimes came 'home' to hang out for an evening with his oldest friend Bill, even when he didn't stop home at the Burrow--when Fleur was there, it was initially a little awkward, sure, but Charlie was Charlie, taking everything in stride, and by the time they were engaged, there was no issue. Bill was aware his hot and unbelievably sexual wife-to-be had, before she was his, straddled his little brother and dug her fingernails into his chest as she came around him and made him shout, but he knew it was past, and he didn't struggle with it.
Much.
There was no specific agreement not to ever tell Molly, but of course, they knew they never would.
Bill feels the tug of the impending moon as though its phases have taken up residence in his spine, and he shudders. It could be worse, and he knows it. It could be that the scars and the angry pulse of his blood were instead a full change to a howling drooling wolf, and it could be that his wife had chosen to leave him to his demons and it could be that he was dead. It is none of those things, yet still, the cold deep wave of jagged revulsion hurts. He snarls and tries to ignore it for a few more minutes, even as his vision goes chilly animal grey and his heartbeat thumps like he's running a bloody marathon at altitude.
Fleur is late--late--and she knows he needs her here, needs her to cope with the transformation from stable to disturbed, needs her to tell him what to do. He binds himself to the chair while he still can, unable to trust that he can wait, and tosses away the wand. Once he's fully changed, and bugger if that's not what it is regardless of what the fucking Ministry lackeys say about how they'd rather he refer to himself as altered so as not to mislead whoever the fuck they think will be confused, his capacity for self-control will be too diminished to retrieve it wandless and he'll be stuck.
He taps his feet on the floor, impatient, skin crawling as the scars bulge dark and horrible so he can see the ones on his forearms go black against the pale grey of his skin, can feel the mass on his face, swelling and hot. She's late. He tugs against the ropes securing his wrists.
The door opens behind him and he curses the decision to seat himself facing away because it surely is someone come to hunt him, to hurt him…
She comes into view, cool blue against the angry red of his paranoia, and seeing her reminds him it is paranoia though he can't hold onto the concept for very long at a stretch. She sets down the Pensieve on the table and clucks at him, then unbinds him. "There is no need, Bill," she says, and when she says it, it's true, because despite all the rage, she can hold him utterly still with a look.
He doesn't understand why, but he doesn't let go of the arms of the chair as he sits, waiting.
When he isn't under the influence of the moon, Bill has no qualms about Fleur's past. He knows about it, and occasionally he has weird moments of disquiet, but they're nothing that presents a problem.
When he is under the influence, he has qualms. He looks at her, bright cool silver and imagines all the reasons his muddy awful face and body can't be what she needs, all the reasons she has every right to prefer something better, all the reasons his rage--which rises as he thinks this which he can't help which is fucked up but he can't help it--should send her fleeing.
He tried, the first time he felt this way, to send her away.
He woke the next morning at St. Mungo's bandaged and bruised from where he'd clawed and raged at the door, where he'd thrown himself against walls and the floor and the bedposts and the window, now shattered, until blood loss and blunt force trauma had left him unconscious.
After that, she wouldn't go.
He told her, the second time, to bind him, but she told him she would only do it if she couldn't control him, and that she was very sure she could.
Physically, she was right. Still, he says ugly things when he's like this. He tells her all the things he imagines, all the ways he knows she's a whore, all the images he holds, of Charlie fucking her against a wall, her head dropped forward onto his shoulder, or her on her hands and knees, slamming back onto the French boy that was her first. He imagines all the ways she isn't his, and he curses at her and wants to throw things and wants to force her to be only his, to claim her away from everything.
He knows--even while he says horrible things to her, about what it must mean that she spread her legs for half of Europe and what he thinks about a girl who would hop so happily into the bed of the brother of the boy she was fucking senseless--that it's insane, unfair, unreasonable, mean, and utterly unacceptable, and still, he can't seem to shut his fucking mouth.
The first time this happened, she listened to his tirade, watching him turn red and spit and clench his fists, and then asked if it would help to use real images and make her his through them.
He stopped cold, thighs so tense they cramped, and asked what the fuck a horny bitch with indiscriminate taste for multiple dicks and probably a cunt full of some poor sod's dripping come right now would know about that.
He can't believe he asked that.
It's the only time her cool has gone pink in this room. She turned away, her streaming hair hanging over her face, and took a deep shuddering breath, and then… And then she gathered herself and spun, stalking toward him, eyes shooting fire he was surprised wasn't burning him, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, and told him she would fucking well know because Veela know what they are doing, and if he was too insecure to try anything, she would do as he'd originally suggested and tie his sorry arse to the chair and leave him there to rot.
Or, he could try what she'd suggested.
The snarl had startled her, but somehow--thank God--he'd managed to agree to try it.
This is why she has the Pensieve, and why she comes in prepared for his words. His pathetic control of his mouth is improving, and perhaps one day he won't say horrible things to her, but tonight is not yet that time.
She waits for him to wind down, and then asks if he is ready.
She always shows him something new. It started with Charlie, always Charlie. He's seen her fuck his brother in every conceivable position, for hours at a time, riding him and rolling beneath him and begging him to fuck her harder, legs spread wide or pushed up against her chest, fingers between them as she climaxes loud and often. He's seen her with her legs wrapped around a Spanish Muggle man of thirty, in the showers of a vacation spa the summer she was sixteen, wet hair clinging to her flesh, shoulders pressed against slick tile as he lifts her up and slams her down on his cock. He's seen her with her knees over the shoulders of an inexperienced spotty kid, directing him to slide his tongue inside her just like that because he came before they'd hardly begun and she's still going to get something out of it.
He's seen a hundred things, and every time, she shows him, and then they reproduce it. He's fucked her with her legs spread wide or against her chest. He's felt her legs around him in the steam of the shower, and he's licked her clean after she brought him so close with her tongue that he came as soon as he entered her.
He's seen everything, and still she has more to show him, more ways for him to make each of these memories about him, if not exclusively, at least most recently.
He knows he's a sick fuck for watching her and copying, knows it's just wrong that the wolf part of him evidently thinks this makes her any more his, but against all logic it is helping, unless it's just that the passage of time is doing the job, but he wouldn't stop if he knew it was the latter anyway.
He knows that the way he watches her do his brother and then takes Charlie's place, over and over, willing his dick to wash away Charlie, is utterly wrong.
He knows somehow he's going to have to make the wolf part of him understand it's all right. So far, the wolf part of him argues it's only all right if it's him, so he keeps watching and fucking, and if he holds the images in his mind during the rest of the month sometimes, envisioning her lips on Charlie's cock while he holds her hands on the headboard and rams into her, he pretends it's because it will help. And maybe it will.
Watching her fuck is amazing.
"I'm ready," he says, though he never really is, because how can he be? Every time he watches his wife take some other cock inside her and every time it's sexy and painful and beautiful and horrible and the first few seconds feel like it's only making everything worse, only then, it's not.
She looks him in the eye, and he draws in a sharp breath. Something is different, here, and he feels the instinctive well of panic and jealousy and angry red heat before she says a word, but he clenches his jaw shut and doesn't say the angry words because she's saying she knows he's ready for something a little bit new.
"This time," she says, "we can't do this by ourselves."
He scowls; the only thing they can't do by themselves is take her virginity, and he's seen that one already, with the hurried thrusting in the back stacks of the Beauxbatons library with a black-haired boy between her young thighs on the surface of an old wooden carrel. They did that, and they can do whatever she has to show him this time, but she's still talking and while he doesn't think he can take anything new, she says he can, and she's still talking.
"This time," she's saying, "I've contacted an old friend."
She's speaking to him slowly, maintaining eye contact, and he snarls. "Why." It's not even a question except in that he expects an answer, and he curls and uncurls tight fists against his thighs.
"You can say no," she tells him, "but I know it will help." He's looking at her eyes and he knows if he says no it won't be all right, that she'll take his answer but it will break something he didn't even manage to break calling her a whore, and he shakes his head.
She strokes a finger down his face, over rough scars, and whispers, "Good boy," and pulls the memory strands from her head and into the Pensieve.
As he falls into the memory, he knows immediately where he is, in the familiar tiled steam of the Prefects' Bath at Hogwarts, and it takes him a moment to work out when they are. "During the Tournament?" he asks, which of course it is, and she's there with him because she always is.
"After the first task," she says. "'Arry was too young, but…"
"As if youth kept you from--"
"Not for me," she says, her tone something between patient and annoyed. "It would, of course, have been a Champions orgy, had it been entirely my plan. If 'e was old enough to face a dragon, 'e was old enough to slide 'is cock into me, but the others, they did not agree."
Bill groans but doesn't answer; if Fleur has ever fucked Harry, he'd know about it by now, surely, and the action before him is enough to watch. He can see now why they can't re-enact this themselves, and if his blood is enraged by the notion of sharing her again, his dick has no such compunction. He stares, intent on soaking up every instant of breasts and hips and wet, wet cunt the Pensieve will show him.
He doesn't understand how remembered vision works with his greyscale wolf's eyes. He has certainly been in a Pensieve before, but on any ordinary day the colour is only muted, not absent. When the moon is full, it is enhanced. Sort of. He's accustomed to the effect. Charlie is always bright fiery orange, not so different from the Charlie he would see if he could watch directly. The Spanish man was a murky purple-red, the spotty kid sickly muddy yellow. He can't quite work out how the association works in every case, but regardless, his wolf-changed senses only see the grey, and his mind tinges colour without consulting his intellect. It's always like this.
He watches Fleur (blue and cool, her hair gone silver in this place, her pale eyes glowing bluer than can be possible) as she removes the lacy brassiere, licking her lips at the sights before her.
Neither boy is inexperienced, Bill is sure. Both are far too confident, far too able to wait for her to choose how this will go despite young limber bodies and anxious eyes.
On the left is Krum, still so very like he was in the World Cup game, hair shorn short. Bill's eyes decide he is golden-yellow, sharp and clear, his nose like a hawk, his dick short and thick and hard in his hand. He isn't shy, massaging with his fingers as he looks at Bill's wife, and it's not, actually, that he's small, just that he's a wiry man with a Seeker's build, and his thickness is a surprise. He licks his lips, and Bill wants to wrap his fingers around those heavy balls and see what he does.
Fleur steps out of knickers that match the bra, letting them fall silent to the floor, and looks from one of them to the other.
On the right is Cedric Diggory, and God, he shouldn’t be this young because Bill knows it means this was the Diggory that died. Not that there is any other Cedric, but the reminder is still strange. He is green, cold and solid here. Bill understands the assignment of the killing colour, in a distant corner of his mind, but it's disconcerting and constant, here in a place where this Cedric looks at Krum and sees him jerking off and follows suit, wrapping long strong fingers around a dick Bill thinks is beautiful and besides Charlie's, he's never specifically thought that about any of the dicks Fleur's fucked.
He watches them next to each other, aware of each other with glances and groans as Fleur walks naked toward them.
There is no verbal sign as to what she's going to do, though Bill has no doubt she's in charge of the situation, but she looks from one to the other and they turn, face each other, and reach, golden and green and glowing.
Fleur smiles, the cool blue remaining despite the heat Bill feels, not just in his own dick but in his belly and skull and hands and toes. He stares as Cedric and Krum fondle each other, as Krum's lips open in a nearly-suppressed gasp, as Cedric's hips thrust into Krum's hand. He stares at Fleur, watching, detached, until he thinks perhaps she is going to watch them fuck, and then, she smiles. She smiles and steps forward to take one fat dick in each hand, holding them firmly enough that Bill winces, his cock shrivelling slightly in sympathy.
The two boys startle at her touch, but their glazed eyes are clear enough: she's doing her Veela thing, making them want what she has.
"Would they have wanted--" he begins, as always both turned on and bothered by the notion she can make anyone want to fuck her at any time, and he's rock-hard again, watching her do it to them.
Fleur chuckles--the real Fleur, next to him in the memory--and shushes him. She knows he has to ask, wants to know, and loves his uncertain discomfort. "Wait," she says, and she vanishes. Bill blinks; she's never done that before.
And then he goes back to staring at young green-tinted skin, the muscles of the arse, which he can barely see from this angle, flexing forward hard, anxious, making hard planes and soft-scooped curves that move constantly. It's mesmerizing and he tears his gaze away to look at their faces and eyes and chests, as well.
He looks down at the bulge in his trousers and considers whether to lower his zip. His own body shows wolf-eyed grey as well, tinged with the red of lust and anger and hurt. He lifts his hand to release his cock, to stroke himself as he watches the scene, then stops. He's not supposed to, and the wolf argues with the man until Fleur returns.
"Look," she says.
He's already looking, and it takes several seconds for him to make sense of the change. The image, already three-dimensional, has thickened, becoming richer and more solid and inexplicably more three-dimensional. It flickers, occasionally, the lines of the three blurring slightly as memory-Fleur directs the two boys, one still green and one now darker, more rosy-brown than gold, to sit. The colours are not, precisely, brighter, but they are more dense, more clear, and the thicker edge to every line has Bill's hands at his flies again because it has to mean she's added a second point of view to the memory, and that can only mean that Krum is here, in the room.
"Is he--"
"I could leave," says Krum, his accent still thick and heavy but his words clear from several feet away.
Bill swallows and looks at Fleur. "You brought him here because--"
"Because there cannot be two of you."
"Your wife has explained to me," Krum said, "but until I have heard from you, I am perhaps remaining over here." He doesn't sound concerned, only cautious, and after a moment Bill realizes why that's soothing: Krum is only worried about whether in fact Bill wants or needs this, not worried about Bill's scars or rage or damage. He is older, harder, but it hasn't been so many years, and he looks almost the same. Bill isn't sure whether this is helpful or disconcerting as he tries to understand the situation.
He pauses for a moment, then nods his assent to Krum's presence and goes back to watching the tableau before him. Fleur has the two arranged facing each other, Cedric's longer legs draped over Krum's muscular thighs, cocks touching, balls hanging against each other in the tiny space between them. They're both looking up at her, and she pauses, then steps across, positioning herself between them. She lowers herself slowly, thighs wider than Bill can think is possible, until she touches down on one of them, apparently Cedric. He's behind her, and he groans, and she stops and reaches between her legs. There's a moment of adjustment there, and then she drops down hard, impaling herself on both of them at once.
Bill's cock apparently thinks the tightness that has to involve is the best idea it's ever heard of; it jumps in his trousers and it's all he can do not to touch himself. "Fleur…"
She turns to him, and as ever, her directions are simple words, direct, unambiguous. "You may not come."
The wolf, so difficult for him to control, obeys her, and that's all it takes. As much as he thinks his balls might explode, as much as he's rocking in the chair now, he doesn't come, doesn't touch, doesn't stop watching.
Her head is thrown back, resting on Cedric's shoulder as she moves up and down, off them and back on, as Cedric brings a green-tinted hand around to roll her nipple between a finger and thumb. Krum has both hands braced behind him on the floor, ramming up into her as hard as he can, muttering words in Bulgarian as she curses in French, words Bill recognizes, words she uses with him, like harder and so good,and ones he doesn't. He leans over and asks for a running translation, and she casts a cock-ring charm before she answers.
She's right to do so; he would definitely have failed to resist coming when she told him she was telling them about their dicks rubbing together and how hard she was squeezing them next to each other inside her.
Krum, the one in the image and the one that's here now, groan almost identically, and Bill's attention is drawn back to the fucking threesome, to Fleur's slender fingers working her clit as two cocks all but split her open.
Bill looks at his Fleur and she stands from where she's been crouched beside him, and holds out her hand. Bill stands with her, then turns to Krum. The three of them walk together to the younger group, encircling them, watching as Fleur's breasts bounce, stepping over her long legs splayed far out to the side.
"You like watching, Krum?" Bill asks.
Krum looks up and lifts a brow, then grips the fat bulge at his crotch. "Is a stupid question, I think?"
Bill laughs, feeling unexpectedly light in these incomprehensibly weird circumstances, and Fleur squeezes his hand.
He isn't sure how long they can go on like this, her cunt stretched so taut around them, both of them fucking up into her, pushing and groaning and reaching for each other, but he can't stop staring, at her head thrown back onto Cedric's shoulder, at Krum's shiny soaked dick just visible between her legs every time she lifts up, at Cedric's long legs flexing under her every time Krum's flex under him.
Krum comes first, grunting louder words that have to be curses as he unloads, and Cedric unsurprisingly follows him right over, and then she's still moving, whimpering, desperate to get off, and Krum looks at Cedric and together they move her off them and onto her back on the floor. They both roll toward her, licking up her inner thighs in a slow pointless race to meet her fingers dipping inside her.
Krum wins the race, and Cedric backs off, watching greedily as Krum licks her, tongue dipping inside until she's clutching his hair and squeezing her thighs around both of them as she comes.
Bill looks at the Krum with them now, older, and feels another jealous surge because to re-enact this, he clearly has to play Cedric, but as he looks down at the image of Fleur on the tiled floor, panting and smiling the satisfied smile of someone who just came so hard she can't remember what day it is, he thinks only that he wants to get out of the fucking Pensieve.
He pulls up out of the image and unbuckles his belt before Fleur and Krum disentangle themselves from the memory.
Krum is there quickly, his movements efficient and rough, his hands down Bill's pants straight away, his lips an inch from Bill's face. "You must re-produce exactly?" he asks, and Bill frowns.
"I. No," he says, startled to realize this is memory, this is past, this is something he can rewrite. He looks at Krum, golden here as well, and shakes his head. "No. Not exactly."
Krum grins and looks at Fleur. "Is all right?"
She pulls her shirt over her head and nods, and Bill leans forward into Krum's hard kiss.
He isn't sure what he expects, but it's different, and good, and solid, utterly disregarding his scars and the growls in his throat that he can't help, and then there's Fleur, insinuating herself between them, facing Bill and watching them kiss. She carefully levitates between them until they can push their dicks together between her, trousers around their knees, weight balancing each other as they hold each other up, sliding into her wet tight hole together. Bill's a bit taller than Krum, though his legs are relatively short, and he feels the weight of her settling at the base of his cock with each thrust as Krum's cock pushes against his.
He reaches for her nipple to roll between a thumb and a finger, and watches Krum's fingers slide in circles around her clit as he comes.
It isn't an exact re-enactment, but as he reaches for control and Summons his wand, he grins. He steps back and lowers them all to the ground, Krum on his back, Fleur riding him backwards, Bill on his belly between Krum's thighs sucking on anything he can reach. Watching her fuck is amazing.
Fleur looks down at him, and because of what she is, with just a word he's getting hard again, but he stays where he is. There's time, and no good reason for him or the wolf to be jealous, and right now, she's beautiful.