Fic: "Les Anges," NC-17
fem_exchange Fic 2: The Femmeslash Strikes Back!
Title: Les Anges
Author: acidpop25
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1,016 words
Pairing(s): Gabrielle/Fleur with reference to Fleur/Bill.
Summary: Gabrielle and Fleur have an evening alone at Shell Cottage. (DH-compliant, including the epilogue).
Warning(s): Very light dirty talk, hints of D/s. Adultery. Oh, also incest, in case that wasn't obvious.
A/N: Written for sweetcarolanne; the original request can be found here, and the original post on the comm is here. This was a pinch-hit that I quite literally wrote all in one sitting, all in one day. It was a completely unfamiliar pair, and Gabrielle was an unfamiliar character (though Fleur I know), and I am heavily indebted to sweetcarolanne's ship manifesto on this one. Smutty and lightly romantic and utterly outside my normal Angsty and Ambiguous™, this one really stretched my range in the opposite direction, and I'm very pleased with how it turned out.
“She looks like you,” Gabrielle murmurs, when Fleur returns to the living room. “She looks like an angel.” Little Victoire has been put to bed with a kiss and a fond smile, and Shell Cottage is theirs for the evening- Bill is away on business in Egypt, and Fleur felt no compunction to mention that her sister would be visiting. For a moment, Fleur is silent, watching Gabrielle without answering her; she is tracing one slender finger along a framed photograph of her niece.
“She does not act like an angel,” Fleur finally says, and smiles faintly. “I think maman would be horrified if she weren’t so happy to have a granddaughter.”
Gabrielle slants a glance at Fleur, lips curling into a sly smirk. “You do not act like an angel, either.”
“Nonsense,” Fleur replies, and settles herself primly on the couch, neatly smoothing out her skirt in a motion so ingrained and habitual that Gabrielle cannot recall a time Fleur didn’t do it. “I am the very picture of virtue.” The trace of humour in her voice is so dry as to be barely discernible to anyone who didn’t know Fleur very well indeed. “A selfless wife and loving mother.” She pauses. “A devoted sister.”
Gabrielle reaches over and tugs Fleur’s hair free of the sleek knot she had taken to wearing it in after Victoire’s birth; the silvery locks tumble down like a waterfall of finest silk over Fleur’ shoulders, down her back. “Is that what you call it?” The words are light, but the question is anything but, and Fleur catches Gabrielle’s hand in her own.
“No,” she answers, “I don’t call it anything. I do not need a name; it just is. Words, they...” she trails off, a faint frown crinkling her brow, before at length she continues, “they make love and desire and sex and affection, words make them... cheap. Does that make sense?”
Gabrielle only smiles, the beaming smile that can light up a room, the smile that can make Fleur’s head spin even after so many years. “You’ve never been a good girl,” she says, voice dropping lower as she shifts closer, “you cheat and lie, you never let anyone help you off your throne, you’re a naughty little princess.” Gabrielle leans in nearer still. “Are you sorry?”
“No,” Fleur breathes; her eyelids flutter shut. “Never.”
“Good.” Gabrielle closes the last bit of space between them and presses her lips to Fleur’s with a swift, sudden fierce rush of possessive desire for this perfectly imperfect, beautiful woman, for Fleur, her Fleur, Fleur to whom no other woman could ever possibly compare. She smells of roses and of the sea, and all Gabrielle can hear is the rush of blood in her ears and their quickening breathing, and Fleur wraps her arms around Gabrielle’s waist, catches her close and tangles her fingers in the ends of Gabrielle’s hair.
“Gabi,” Fleur whispers against her lips, “Gabi, please.”
Their clothes are tugged off in an urgent rush too fast to make sense of even had they wanted to do so, and Gabrielle presses an unresisting Fleur back on the couch. At the first touch of Gabrielle’s fingers, a low breathy moan escapes Fleur and her spine arches, hips pressing forward instinctively, more, more, more, lips parting and eyes squeezing shut as much in anticipation as in physical sensation.
“Open your eyes,” Gabrielle murmurs, stilling her hand. “Fleur. Open them.”
It takes a moment for Fleur to do so, but she does, looking up at Gabrielle with blue eyes gone lust-dark, pupils wide. Wantonly beautiful; the sight makes Gabrielle’s breath catch.
“You’re exquisite,” Gabrielle whispers, “I want you to look at me.”
“I never want to do anything else,” Fleur says, the last word nearly lost in another moan as Gabrielle slides her fingers into Fleur, working them in and out with sure, practised motions as her thumb rubs over Fleur’s clit; Gabrielle has not been the innocent little sister for years, now, and she knows what Fleur likes, knows every little trick, every little motion to reduce her to hypersensitive nerves and desperation, how to make her gasp out “Gabrielle!” on a ragged breath as she comes, nails biting into Gabrielle’s skin as Fleur clutches at her, eyes impossibly wide and passion-glassy.
She hadn’t closed them.
Gabrielle kisses Fleur again, less urgently now. Unhurried and deep, pressing close, close. Fleur is all heated skin and familiar lush curves, her skin slick with sweat and her hair sticking to her neck, her shoulders, her face. Gabrielle can feel the gradually slowing pounding of her sister’s heartbeat as she starts to come down from the high, and Fleur bites softly at Gabrielle’s bottom lip, giving it a gentle, playful tug.
“Mon ange,” Gabrielle whispers, and Fleur smiles and hugs her close. “Never an angel,” she murmurs, “but always yours, mon cœur.” She shifts lazily, the motion languidly graceful, and reverses their positions so she is on top of Gabrielle and starts trailing a crooked line of soft kisses along Gabrielle’s neck and down the centre of her chest, wispy strands of silver-blonde hair tickling at Gabrielle’s pale skin.
“How many days do we have, did you say?”
“Four,” Fleur murmurs against her skin, “maybe five.”
Gabrielle makes a little moue of discontent. “That isn’t enough.”
“I know. Is anything, really?” Fleur looks up at her. “There’s never enough time for everything, I sometimes think. To do everything and see everything and be everything you want, it just doesn’t all fit. I hate that, sometimes. I need two of me.”
Gabrielle’s lips quirk tellingly, and Fleur cocks her head slightly. “What did I say?”
“No, no. Sorry. You were being serious.”
“Oh, you have to tell me now,” Fleur says, eyes sparkling in amusement, and lightly prods Gabrielle’s side. “Come on.”
“Well,” Gabrielle says, a slow grin spreading across her features, “two of you. Think of the possibilities.”
Fleur rolls her eyes, but she is smiling, and she swats Gabrielle lightly across the thigh. “And you say I’m naughty,” she murmurs fondly.
Gabrielle just laughs.
Title: Les Anges
Author: acidpop25
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1,016 words
Pairing(s): Gabrielle/Fleur with reference to Fleur/Bill.
Summary: Gabrielle and Fleur have an evening alone at Shell Cottage. (DH-compliant, including the epilogue).
Warning(s): Very light dirty talk, hints of D/s. Adultery. Oh, also incest, in case that wasn't obvious.
A/N: Written for sweetcarolanne; the original request can be found here, and the original post on the comm is here. This was a pinch-hit that I quite literally wrote all in one sitting, all in one day. It was a completely unfamiliar pair, and Gabrielle was an unfamiliar character (though Fleur I know), and I am heavily indebted to sweetcarolanne's ship manifesto on this one. Smutty and lightly romantic and utterly outside my normal Angsty and Ambiguous™, this one really stretched my range in the opposite direction, and I'm very pleased with how it turned out.
“She looks like you,” Gabrielle murmurs, when Fleur returns to the living room. “She looks like an angel.” Little Victoire has been put to bed with a kiss and a fond smile, and Shell Cottage is theirs for the evening- Bill is away on business in Egypt, and Fleur felt no compunction to mention that her sister would be visiting. For a moment, Fleur is silent, watching Gabrielle without answering her; she is tracing one slender finger along a framed photograph of her niece.
“She does not act like an angel,” Fleur finally says, and smiles faintly. “I think maman would be horrified if she weren’t so happy to have a granddaughter.”
Gabrielle slants a glance at Fleur, lips curling into a sly smirk. “You do not act like an angel, either.”
“Nonsense,” Fleur replies, and settles herself primly on the couch, neatly smoothing out her skirt in a motion so ingrained and habitual that Gabrielle cannot recall a time Fleur didn’t do it. “I am the very picture of virtue.” The trace of humour in her voice is so dry as to be barely discernible to anyone who didn’t know Fleur very well indeed. “A selfless wife and loving mother.” She pauses. “A devoted sister.”
Gabrielle reaches over and tugs Fleur’s hair free of the sleek knot she had taken to wearing it in after Victoire’s birth; the silvery locks tumble down like a waterfall of finest silk over Fleur’ shoulders, down her back. “Is that what you call it?” The words are light, but the question is anything but, and Fleur catches Gabrielle’s hand in her own.
“No,” she answers, “I don’t call it anything. I do not need a name; it just is. Words, they...” she trails off, a faint frown crinkling her brow, before at length she continues, “they make love and desire and sex and affection, words make them... cheap. Does that make sense?”
Gabrielle only smiles, the beaming smile that can light up a room, the smile that can make Fleur’s head spin even after so many years. “You’ve never been a good girl,” she says, voice dropping lower as she shifts closer, “you cheat and lie, you never let anyone help you off your throne, you’re a naughty little princess.” Gabrielle leans in nearer still. “Are you sorry?”
“No,” Fleur breathes; her eyelids flutter shut. “Never.”
“Good.” Gabrielle closes the last bit of space between them and presses her lips to Fleur’s with a swift, sudden fierce rush of possessive desire for this perfectly imperfect, beautiful woman, for Fleur, her Fleur, Fleur to whom no other woman could ever possibly compare. She smells of roses and of the sea, and all Gabrielle can hear is the rush of blood in her ears and their quickening breathing, and Fleur wraps her arms around Gabrielle’s waist, catches her close and tangles her fingers in the ends of Gabrielle’s hair.
“Gabi,” Fleur whispers against her lips, “Gabi, please.”
Their clothes are tugged off in an urgent rush too fast to make sense of even had they wanted to do so, and Gabrielle presses an unresisting Fleur back on the couch. At the first touch of Gabrielle’s fingers, a low breathy moan escapes Fleur and her spine arches, hips pressing forward instinctively, more, more, more, lips parting and eyes squeezing shut as much in anticipation as in physical sensation.
“Open your eyes,” Gabrielle murmurs, stilling her hand. “Fleur. Open them.”
It takes a moment for Fleur to do so, but she does, looking up at Gabrielle with blue eyes gone lust-dark, pupils wide. Wantonly beautiful; the sight makes Gabrielle’s breath catch.
“You’re exquisite,” Gabrielle whispers, “I want you to look at me.”
“I never want to do anything else,” Fleur says, the last word nearly lost in another moan as Gabrielle slides her fingers into Fleur, working them in and out with sure, practised motions as her thumb rubs over Fleur’s clit; Gabrielle has not been the innocent little sister for years, now, and she knows what Fleur likes, knows every little trick, every little motion to reduce her to hypersensitive nerves and desperation, how to make her gasp out “Gabrielle!” on a ragged breath as she comes, nails biting into Gabrielle’s skin as Fleur clutches at her, eyes impossibly wide and passion-glassy.
She hadn’t closed them.
Gabrielle kisses Fleur again, less urgently now. Unhurried and deep, pressing close, close. Fleur is all heated skin and familiar lush curves, her skin slick with sweat and her hair sticking to her neck, her shoulders, her face. Gabrielle can feel the gradually slowing pounding of her sister’s heartbeat as she starts to come down from the high, and Fleur bites softly at Gabrielle’s bottom lip, giving it a gentle, playful tug.
“Mon ange,” Gabrielle whispers, and Fleur smiles and hugs her close. “Never an angel,” she murmurs, “but always yours, mon cœur.” She shifts lazily, the motion languidly graceful, and reverses their positions so she is on top of Gabrielle and starts trailing a crooked line of soft kisses along Gabrielle’s neck and down the centre of her chest, wispy strands of silver-blonde hair tickling at Gabrielle’s pale skin.
“How many days do we have, did you say?”
“Four,” Fleur murmurs against her skin, “maybe five.”
Gabrielle makes a little moue of discontent. “That isn’t enough.”
“I know. Is anything, really?” Fleur looks up at her. “There’s never enough time for everything, I sometimes think. To do everything and see everything and be everything you want, it just doesn’t all fit. I hate that, sometimes. I need two of me.”
Gabrielle’s lips quirk tellingly, and Fleur cocks her head slightly. “What did I say?”
“No, no. Sorry. You were being serious.”
“Oh, you have to tell me now,” Fleur says, eyes sparkling in amusement, and lightly prods Gabrielle’s side. “Come on.”
“Well,” Gabrielle says, a slow grin spreading across her features, “two of you. Think of the possibilities.”
Fleur rolls her eyes, but she is smiling, and she swats Gabrielle lightly across the thigh. “And you say I’m naughty,” she murmurs fondly.
Gabrielle just laughs.