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.
( Primary Colours )
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Original poster: bowmanwright The changes wrought by the bite of an unchanged wolf are many and diverse.
Some of them are small. There is the tickle of the sinuses in certain stormy weather, as though the wolf-instinct seeks to respond in some manner that all but one day a month the mind cannot decipher. There is the dreadful awareness of the moon, despite that no wolf-body will come forth. There is the tendency toward anemia, remediable with careful attention to diet. None of these things are more than a trivial nuisance.
But then, some of them are a great deal larger.
In the throes of the partial change, when there is lust in the air before him, a chain or magical binding might be required to hold him steady, despite that he is lucid through the night, despite that his mind is clear. His body craves and trembles with needs and unreasoning forces that lie outside his control, until he has learned to give over to the control of another. She can hold him without any chain, and in return, their balance is careful. She never directs him but on this night, and on this night, she controls him completely.
He never knows what he might see.
Now, when the world around him exists in shades of grey, there is yet, in the midst of it, color. His own part is muddy red, heated and hard and blurred by morning. Hers is blue, and crisp. The sharp yellow and bright living green are new.
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Original poster: bowmanwright Let it not be said that the past is always behind us; it is not. Sometimes it is living, there before us.
This one is only a memory, a young eager body at play despite the tense surroundings, so opposite his present sensibility it's hard to imagine reconciliation.
That one is sharper, angrier, and if the memory shows the playful spirit, there is about it a wistful sense of distance as well.
Sometimes the grays blur.
Sometimes they align, crisp and sharp in overlaid lines and perfect glowing soft skin.
Sometimes the slick sounds of sex carry him away, watching the laid-back head that exposes a long lean throat, the grasping grunting thrusts of two men--boys--caught up in the moment, the bouncing breasts and impossible flexibility of the lithe woman between them.
Each month, the tableau is new. He never knows what he'll see, or what she'll have him do, but this is a first, and the surge he can't quite pin down--it might be lust, it might be rage, or it might be the moon, for all he can tell--has him painfully hard and achingly desperate.
Until she allows it, he can't do a damn thing about it.
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Original poster: bowmanwright Fleur Delacour was young when she wed, but she was French, and Veela, and it was to be expected she was no blushing virgin, nor even especially well-suited to monogamy.
Her husband knew all that when he married her (indeed, he'd sampled the wares quite thoroughly, and wasn't, himself, the portrait of purity), but he wasn't quite expecting this.
He isn't sure whether to like it, or love it. Either way, he has no plans to tell his mother.
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