The Smell of Sex (Bill/Fleur)
Title:The Smell of Sex
Author: sophierom
Pairing: Bill/Fleur
Genre: Angst
Audience: the Most Mature ONLY
Warnings: Erm, sex
Length: 940 words
Complete?: Yes
Beta-ed? : Yes, by the wonderful _vocalion_. Any mistakes remaining are my fault, not hers.
Summary: Bill comes to understand the nature of his relationship with Fleur.
Notes: Inspired by a recent discussion about concrit on melisande88's journal, I decided to offer up this short piece. I wrote it as a response to the "hand me my robes" line drive at the handmemyrobes archive. That challenge required only that I use the line "hand me my robes" somewhere in the piece.
My initial goal in writing this piece was to try my hand at writing sex. And in the end, I didn't even really write about sex. ;-D Any concrit is welcome: criticism of writing style, subject, length, characterization (or lack thereof) and anything else I didn't mention ... please feel free to give me your criticism of the fic.
I feel more than a little guilty dumping something on the group when I haven't been around to review lately. So if anyone else has been thinking about posting but hasn't, please do post, and I will be happy to provide comments. I've found myself with a few extra hours this week, and I'd love to sharpen my reviewing skills.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The Smell of Sex
"Hand me my robes."
She says this every morning. Some days she sounds sultry; other days, sleepy. She can come across as pleading, petulant, or pushy, depending on what I choose to hear in her voice. This morning I hear only a whisper, breathy and numb.
I do not move. I'm not sure I can. I want to close my eyes and pretend she hasn't spoken.
"Please, William..."
Please, William. I can still remember the feel of those words against my ear the first time I came inside her. Please, William, fuck me, fuck me William, please!
"William? She calls you William?" Fred laughed heartily the first time he'd heard about that.
"But you hate being called William!" George protested.
Not when she says it. William, with just enough of the French ee to soften that heavy English ill. Exotic and erotic - but only when rolling off her tongue: Weeliam.
"William, you know this must happen."
Do I? Yes, I suppose I do. As with most things between us, I have no choice in the matter. When she sets her mind to something, there is no stopping her. It's what I love most about her, that force of will. She wanted me, and I was hers.
I used to believe that I was in control. While others fawned over her, I remained aloof. I would not be snared by the charms of a part-Veela. She pursued me; I kept my distance.
In the Great Hall of Hogwarts, as she flicked her silver-blonde hair over her shoulders: I have a job at Gringotts this summer, did you know, William? Perhaps we will see each other sometime?
Just outside of Gringotts, her blue eyes sparkling as she ran a nervous hand along the sleeve of my business robes: I'm finding my English to be not very good. Perhaps you can help me, William?
At the Leaky Cauldron after work, her long fingers clutching a goblet of wine: This is so nice of you to meet with me. I have been so lonely here.
On the sidewalk near her flat, her hand caressing my face: Thank you for the lovely dinner. Please, you must come up for a drink.
Against the wall of her bedroom, her body pressed against mine: I want you, William. Tell me you want me.
And so I did. Again and again. Night after night. In her bed, with its slick silk sheets. In mine, against the soft Egyptian cotton. On the floor of my kitchen after an aborted attempt to have a quiet evening at home. Under the stars, the grass and mud pressing into her back and then into mine. Even on my desk one morning before anyone else had arrived at work. (This, she said, spreading her legs and smiling slyly, is for all of those times you complain about having to give up Egypt for a fucking desk job.)
I wish now, as I stare up at the ceiling of my bedroom, that it had been only sex.
"You've been seeing a good deal of her. When are you bringing her to the Burrow?" Mum once demanded with her usual bluntness.
"Molly! Let him have his space," Dad insisted with his best attempt at a sly wink in my direction. "Let him have his fun."
Fun. Yes, it had been fun. Then, without any warning, it had become desperate, needy, essential … as necessary as breathing.
So necessary that last night, even after we - rather, she - decided it was over between us, I allowed her back into my bed. I'm too young, she explained as she undid the buttons of my trousers, too young to stay for too long. Please tell me you understand, she whispered just before she took me in her mouth.
Oh, I understood. It was a pity fuck. And I didn't care. I could pretend, as I thrust my cock so far into her mouth that she gagged, that she needed this as desperately as I did. I could make believe, when I pulled out of her mouth and flipped her onto her stomach, that her moans signaled more than pleasure, more than desire. I could act as if her hard nipples, her swollen clit, her wet pussy were more than just physical reactions.
But now, as I stare at the ceiling, white with sunlight, I am left only with the smell of sex.
"Oh fine, I'll get the robes myself," she says, throwing off the sheets and padding across the room.
Then, to my own surprise, I jump out of the bed and grab her robes. She stands in front of me, naked, hands outstretched. She looks so vulnerable, and I find myself laughing at the absurdity of such an idea.
"Don't be this way," she pleads, her eyes filling with tears. "You said you understood."
I nod but do not hand her the robes. Instead, I bring them to my face and inhale deeply, hoping to catch the scent of her perfume, her shampoo, her skin. Yet, somehow, the robes smell only of sex. My bedroom smells of sex. I smell of sex. The very air smells of sex.
I am disgusted, and I cannot let go.
"Please," I beg, and something inside me breaks at the sound of my own voice.
She does not look at me as she pries the robes from my fingers.
As she leaves, she casts me one last look of pity, and I know how pathetic I must appear in her eyes: naked, alone, and gulping for breath, trying to detect something, anything besides the smell of sex.
Author: sophierom
Pairing: Bill/Fleur
Genre: Angst
Audience: the Most Mature ONLY
Warnings: Erm, sex
Length: 940 words
Complete?: Yes
Beta-ed? : Yes, by the wonderful _vocalion_. Any mistakes remaining are my fault, not hers.
Summary: Bill comes to understand the nature of his relationship with Fleur.
Notes: Inspired by a recent discussion about concrit on melisande88's journal, I decided to offer up this short piece. I wrote it as a response to the "hand me my robes" line drive at the handmemyrobes archive. That challenge required only that I use the line "hand me my robes" somewhere in the piece.
My initial goal in writing this piece was to try my hand at writing sex. And in the end, I didn't even really write about sex. ;-D Any concrit is welcome: criticism of writing style, subject, length, characterization (or lack thereof) and anything else I didn't mention ... please feel free to give me your criticism of the fic.
I feel more than a little guilty dumping something on the group when I haven't been around to review lately. So if anyone else has been thinking about posting but hasn't, please do post, and I will be happy to provide comments. I've found myself with a few extra hours this week, and I'd love to sharpen my reviewing skills.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The Smell of Sex
"Hand me my robes."
She says this every morning. Some days she sounds sultry; other days, sleepy. She can come across as pleading, petulant, or pushy, depending on what I choose to hear in her voice. This morning I hear only a whisper, breathy and numb.
I do not move. I'm not sure I can. I want to close my eyes and pretend she hasn't spoken.
"Please, William..."
Please, William. I can still remember the feel of those words against my ear the first time I came inside her. Please, William, fuck me, fuck me William, please!
"William? She calls you William?" Fred laughed heartily the first time he'd heard about that.
"But you hate being called William!" George protested.
Not when she says it. William, with just enough of the French ee to soften that heavy English ill. Exotic and erotic - but only when rolling off her tongue: Weeliam.
"William, you know this must happen."
Do I? Yes, I suppose I do. As with most things between us, I have no choice in the matter. When she sets her mind to something, there is no stopping her. It's what I love most about her, that force of will. She wanted me, and I was hers.
I used to believe that I was in control. While others fawned over her, I remained aloof. I would not be snared by the charms of a part-Veela. She pursued me; I kept my distance.
In the Great Hall of Hogwarts, as she flicked her silver-blonde hair over her shoulders: I have a job at Gringotts this summer, did you know, William? Perhaps we will see each other sometime?
Just outside of Gringotts, her blue eyes sparkling as she ran a nervous hand along the sleeve of my business robes: I'm finding my English to be not very good. Perhaps you can help me, William?
At the Leaky Cauldron after work, her long fingers clutching a goblet of wine: This is so nice of you to meet with me. I have been so lonely here.
On the sidewalk near her flat, her hand caressing my face: Thank you for the lovely dinner. Please, you must come up for a drink.
Against the wall of her bedroom, her body pressed against mine: I want you, William. Tell me you want me.
And so I did. Again and again. Night after night. In her bed, with its slick silk sheets. In mine, against the soft Egyptian cotton. On the floor of my kitchen after an aborted attempt to have a quiet evening at home. Under the stars, the grass and mud pressing into her back and then into mine. Even on my desk one morning before anyone else had arrived at work. (This, she said, spreading her legs and smiling slyly, is for all of those times you complain about having to give up Egypt for a fucking desk job.)
I wish now, as I stare up at the ceiling of my bedroom, that it had been only sex.
"You've been seeing a good deal of her. When are you bringing her to the Burrow?" Mum once demanded with her usual bluntness.
"Molly! Let him have his space," Dad insisted with his best attempt at a sly wink in my direction. "Let him have his fun."
Fun. Yes, it had been fun. Then, without any warning, it had become desperate, needy, essential … as necessary as breathing.
So necessary that last night, even after we - rather, she - decided it was over between us, I allowed her back into my bed. I'm too young, she explained as she undid the buttons of my trousers, too young to stay for too long. Please tell me you understand, she whispered just before she took me in her mouth.
Oh, I understood. It was a pity fuck. And I didn't care. I could pretend, as I thrust my cock so far into her mouth that she gagged, that she needed this as desperately as I did. I could make believe, when I pulled out of her mouth and flipped her onto her stomach, that her moans signaled more than pleasure, more than desire. I could act as if her hard nipples, her swollen clit, her wet pussy were more than just physical reactions.
But now, as I stare at the ceiling, white with sunlight, I am left only with the smell of sex.
"Oh fine, I'll get the robes myself," she says, throwing off the sheets and padding across the room.
Then, to my own surprise, I jump out of the bed and grab her robes. She stands in front of me, naked, hands outstretched. She looks so vulnerable, and I find myself laughing at the absurdity of such an idea.
"Don't be this way," she pleads, her eyes filling with tears. "You said you understood."
I nod but do not hand her the robes. Instead, I bring them to my face and inhale deeply, hoping to catch the scent of her perfume, her shampoo, her skin. Yet, somehow, the robes smell only of sex. My bedroom smells of sex. I smell of sex. The very air smells of sex.
I am disgusted, and I cannot let go.
"Please," I beg, and something inside me breaks at the sound of my own voice.
She does not look at me as she pries the robes from my fingers.
As she leaves, she casts me one last look of pity, and I know how pathetic I must appear in her eyes: naked, alone, and gulping for breath, trying to detect something, anything besides the smell of sex.