Wine Tasting (R)
I'm working on a little string of short fics that deal with desire and seduction with a Weasley, and I have no idea how this is going to turn into but, eh, I like to try stuff like that. Here is the first Weasley to be seduced...or is he the seducing one?
Wine Tasting
Rating: R, for sensual themes.
Characters: Fleur, Bill
Word count: 2 595
Warning: This is seriously fluffy romance.
queenb23more sacrified again a bit of her sanity by keeping my punctuation in line. Thank you. <3
: : :
She never doubted her beauty. She was as certain of her attractiveness as others trusted their brains, their judgement, or their political ascendancy. She did not make excuses for being who she was; she was gifted with both radiance and intelligence, and she refused to shy away from her qualities.
She realized at the age of eighteen that if she was being desired and admired by young men - sometimes boys, she had resigned herself with the reality that she could not have it all - seduction was a much more complicated venue, since these young men lost their balance at the sight of her.
She had been a witness to the harmonious rapport between her mother and father and the constant flow of charming nothings that were mouthed with connivance, a wave that drifted from one to the other in loops, unfolding before her and her sister.
All this kissing they both saw, without their parents coming anywhere near the other’s lips.
Fleur Delacour wondered why men smothered her in flattery since it was evident that she was who she was. Those clumsy attempts, whether told with flowers or grand gestures, could not graze her surface. Some girls had guessed it, and they sharpened their knives.
Was Fleur Delacour gifted with a heart as delicate as her name? Why, no! She was gifted with surreal beauty! She walked on paths made from slavish men! She captured them; she lavished in their praise; she devoured their heart before smiling to the next one with blood on her teeth!
Girls were scornful little hissers not worthy of her attention if they believe such things.
She would not have gone to the extent of hypocrisy and to pretend that beauty was a burden. She would have never wished to give away who she was. She was beautiful, and she was also lucid: with beauty comes power, and with power comes respect.
: : :
She first desired the young man with this possessive and immature want one feels when in presence for the first time of an object of beauty. He was undeniably handsome; a tall physique with a certain je ne sais quoi, perhaps humour in his mixed expression of calm and nostalgia, unavailable to everything and everyone around him, unattainable to her, but not to the woman beside him, a plump older woman she’d supposed was his mother.
He was not Harry’s brother, she deduced. She wondered who could feel so strongly about him as to present themselves as his family.
After a bit of poking around, she was informed by an awe-struck young Gryffindor that he was Ron Weasley’s older brother. She was directed to a wall where former Head Boys gamely stared at her, flattening their hair under her scrutiny.
She found him under the form of a photograph, a younger William with short hair, beaming at her with confidence.
Confidence. He made Roger Davies appear like a besotted schoolboy.
That he was, to think of it.
Later, she sat herself in the Great Hall so she could observe him. He was eating with appetite, alternatively chatting and listening with attention to a mob of young people. The slight rebel streak she felt coming from him was truly his. He certainly did not look like he was playing a part. He was an unexpected sight in these drab settings led by correctness.
William Weasley supremely annoyed her at first, and she kept the reason to herself. Admitting it, even on the tone of banter, would have opened a window for others to snigger about her shallowness and her self-absorption.
When their eyes met over Harry Potter’s head, Ron’s brother had answered back to her smile with one of his own, before turning again to Harry, unfazed.
: : :
Trainees and employees were mingling during the summer meet-and-greet party that was taking place in a sinister windowless room, somewhere in the torturous corridors of Gringotts. The Goblins were nowhere to be seen. Fleur had the distinct impression that they arranged this gathering with much scorn, cursing against wizards and their need to cluster in tight, chatty groups.
She had been surprised when William Weasley planted himself before her.
“You must be Fleur Delacour,” he said as she was eyeing her glass of wine with much doubt. “We haven’t met, but I was at Hogwarts for the last task of the Triwizard Tournament. I’m Bill, Bill Weasley.”
The nightmare of the last task rose in her, thick and ominous. She fought back the fear that tightened her stomach every time she thought about it.
“Yes, I see you once,” she said. “I did not know you work ‘ere.”
“I just transferred from Egypt.”
She shook the hand he held out to her, and her initial attraction mutated into effervescence. He quickly moistened his lips, and she wondered how it would feel to kiss someone that wasn’t a schoolboy.
“Very good,” Bill suddenly said, looking into his glass. “This wine is good.”
She cringed. He obviously knew nothing about wine. She gave him another chance when he noticed her pout.
“And perhaps you should tell me why I’m wrong,” he said pleasantly.
She indulged into a throaty chuckle, and she jabbered, half in English, a quarter in French, a quarter with her eyes and hands, about the pleasures of wine tasting. She explained with much flourish that wine was not to be solely drunk but appreciated for its colour, its smell, for the feel in one’s mouth. “Senses,” she said as she hesitated, looking for the right words. “Wine, eet is a - a sensual experience.”
“Oh,” he said as she lightly touched his hand so he’d raise his cup before his eyes. “What am I looking at?” he added in a quiet voice as her fingers lingered on his wrist.
“Rich colour in ze rouge,” she replied, making eye contact with him and feeling slightly breathless when he didn’t look away. “Dis, not nice red. Now, you smell eet.”
She touched his hand again, and he brought the cup close to his nose. “Like dis,” she murmured, stretching her neck as she pretended to take a whiff of an imaginary glass. He stared at her, nose in the glass, his eyes so expressive she felt the unusual warmth of blush on her cheeks.
“Dis eez not good wine…eet smells like bad cheese,” she said bluntly.
He chuckled. “I reckon it’s not suppose to smell like that.”
“Oh non. You want to smell-”
“Fleurs?” Patches of red appeared on his cheeks, and to her surprise, he shook his head with a smile, as if saying, Would you believe I’m saying this, now?
She was not surprised that he was flirting - not very well, she was sorry to admit it, but then who did?
He was also laughing at himself in a very endearing manner.
She giggled. “Sometimes, yes. But smelling fruit eez nice, eet will be…er, ‘appier on ze tongue.”
“Tastier,” he whispered.
She bit the inside of her cheeks. “My Eenglish eez not vairy good.”
“My French is trollish, so no worries. You’re doing very well,” he said.
She was not blind. She had the same effect on him that she had on boys and young men: they mollified in front of her and they acted as they truly were - drooling fools or possessive creeps. Wine did that, too. It softened them, leaving their true nature free to emerge. She wondered what she would learn from Bill Weasley. “And now you taste. Terrible, dis, yes?”
He swirled the wine in the glass, looking at it with so much seriousness she could not resist a grin. He sipped on it and grimaced.
Several heads turn their way when she laughed whole-heartedly.
“You’re right. It’s awful.” He flashed her a smile that melt the tension in her stomach. “I know nothing about wine, to be honest. Would you be kind enough to recommend a place where I could taste good wine?”
“Mais oui.” His attitude encouraged her to move forward. “And I could come and taste too.”
She noticed the freckles on his nose, under his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Since I know nothing about it, I’d need an expert with me, right?”
She desired him because he was honest.
: : :
“There are no words, really,” he’d said every time when he greeted her with an appreciative look, as she met with him for a day out.
If she was surprised by his countenance at first, she felt truly happy to leave him speechless, day after day, as they explored Muggle London together or met for lunch at work.
One afternoon, he brought her to the British Museum, and he helped her navigate through the Egyptian exhibition, whispering in her ear fascinating stories of love, desire, revenge, and treason about the Wizards that lived among the Muggles in those times. She relished his confidential tone, his breath on her ear, the slight throaty rasp his voice had when he murmured.
She was walking around in an acute state of arousal, questioning him incessantly so he’d speak again, even if she missed words and sentences. She did not catch all that he was saying; she knew he was talking about doomed lovers, gods, and terrible magical things one would do for power and lust. She let him lead her from one room to the other, wrapped up in those sensual but horrific tales he was regaling her with, wondering about his past there, if he’d had women in his bed, if he’d made love to them.
She was jealous of those imaginary women that sprouted from her mind. She imagined for him women with mystery. Beautiful, elegant, dangerous, and sophisticated. She was consumed by the desire to be one of them.
He’d kissed her in front of Madame Maintenon’s pension with his hand flat on the small of her back. One night, she grabbed his arm, silently asking him to be bolder, and they stepped out of the light.
When he left a while later, she stood alone in the dark. She straightened her shirt, her skin still feverish from his mouth and hands on it, her mind flooded with French words but no translation to offer.
: : :
When he hinted that he was ready for another wine-tasting lesson, she invited him to the pension. Madame Maintenon, her unofficial chaperone, had left for a few days abroad, and Fleur had the house for herself.
He had hesitated before saying yes, with a deliberate pause that had her squirming from things to come. She thought it could be the night.
If he asked, she’d say yes.
If he didn’t ask, she would.
She had charmed lanterns over their head as he sat on the settee. The bottle of wine clunked against the table as she opened it with her hands shaking, conscious that he was staring at her back. She wondered what he was thinking.
She handed him a finely crafted glass. “Look at ze colour. Dis eez beautiful.”
When he accepted it, she plopped down to the cushions scattered on the floor. He did not raise his glass to his eyes. He merely contemplated her, before slipping from the settee to the floor, glass still in hand.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, and her heart fluttered. She was not familiar with that voice of his. She hoped she would hear it again.
She sat on her heels, and she touched his glass with the tip of her fingers. “Ze smell. I promise you, Beel…dis does not smell like ze uzzer one.”
She sighed when he laid down the glass, sliding it away at a safe distance. He leaned towards her and breathed in close to her hair, his cheek slightly brushing against hers. She blew on his earlobe, pressed her mouth on it, and she felt his long, slow exhale against her neck.
“Doesn’t smell like bad cheese, most definitely,” he murmured.
“You theenk you are funny.” She swatted his shoulder, and he reluctantly moved back with a chuckle.
She was half-disheartened that lust was building between them on silly premises.
“And now? What do I do?”
“And now,” she whispered as she impishly touch his mouth with the tips of her fingers, “you taste.”
“Are we still talking about wine?”
His fingers slipped from her knee to her thigh. She loved the dizziness that came with the knowledge that she could light up against his hands.
“Non. You taste.”
“Just me?” His palms trailed on her thighs, her hips, her waist. He was stroking her with his eyes and voice. “Ah…I reckon you meant we. We taste.”
And they did, thoroughly.
: : :
Years later, she is sitting at a table where people are laughing too loudly to be sincere. Pregnancy has slowed her down, so Bill has jumped in to help.
He pours wine to everyone that has joined them for dinner. He grins as he listens to his brothers and their girlfriends; he pats their back, asks questions, laughs at their jokes; he kisses his sister on the cheek; he chats with his father; he massages his mother’s shoulder.
At last, he sits by her side, and he rubs her back with concern. “How was your day?” he whispers as she fidgets with her fork.
It was a hard day, she wants to say. I had a hard time watching your mother cry as she baked a cake for George’s birthday. I felt powerless, so I held her in my arms. I tried my best to find the right words. I wiped away her tears, and I kissed her like a daughter.
She will tell him everything later, in the dark, when he will press himself against her and will stroke both her and her bump.
“I’m tired,” she admits.
Bill shakes his head. “I knew it would be too much for you…why didn’t you let my mother handle this?”
Because, she wants to say, because I knew she needed to be elsewhere than at home, surrounded by memories of Fred and her lingering sadness.
“I wanted to,” she says. “Eet was important for me.”
His voice barely shades through the voices booming around her, but she hears it. “I love you.”
Bill pours himself some wine, and she lets him take a sip before she leans in. “Kiss me.”
She tastes the wine’s raspy tannin with the softness of his mouth. She then bravely chuckles to make sound Molly’s laughter sound less fake when Ron jokes.
“Would you like a cup of water?”
He doesn’t wait for her to answer. The cup is already before her.
She takes a sip, before touching his face so he kisses her again. The way he breathes against her lips triggers a vivid recollection of the first time they made love. He had sighed in her mouth, on her skin, everywhere, igniting small fires in her body every time he moved with her.
That night, she’d wanted to cry out in perfect English, You’ll never know if you’re the first or the fifth because I love you, only you.
His hand meets with hers under the table, and she stares at him as he alleviates his mother’s sadness by complimenting her on the dishes. Shame overcomes her when she wishes for his family to be elsewhere so she could be delivered from their grief.
She would be alone with Bill, and they could deal with the thick onset of desire that makes her core pulse tonight.
: : :
Wine Tasting
Rating: R, for sensual themes.
Characters: Fleur, Bill
Word count: 2 595
Warning: This is seriously fluffy romance.
queenb23more sacrified again a bit of her sanity by keeping my punctuation in line. Thank you. <3
: : :
She never doubted her beauty. She was as certain of her attractiveness as others trusted their brains, their judgement, or their political ascendancy. She did not make excuses for being who she was; she was gifted with both radiance and intelligence, and she refused to shy away from her qualities.
She realized at the age of eighteen that if she was being desired and admired by young men - sometimes boys, she had resigned herself with the reality that she could not have it all - seduction was a much more complicated venue, since these young men lost their balance at the sight of her.
She had been a witness to the harmonious rapport between her mother and father and the constant flow of charming nothings that were mouthed with connivance, a wave that drifted from one to the other in loops, unfolding before her and her sister.
All this kissing they both saw, without their parents coming anywhere near the other’s lips.
Fleur Delacour wondered why men smothered her in flattery since it was evident that she was who she was. Those clumsy attempts, whether told with flowers or grand gestures, could not graze her surface. Some girls had guessed it, and they sharpened their knives.
Was Fleur Delacour gifted with a heart as delicate as her name? Why, no! She was gifted with surreal beauty! She walked on paths made from slavish men! She captured them; she lavished in their praise; she devoured their heart before smiling to the next one with blood on her teeth!
Girls were scornful little hissers not worthy of her attention if they believe such things.
She would not have gone to the extent of hypocrisy and to pretend that beauty was a burden. She would have never wished to give away who she was. She was beautiful, and she was also lucid: with beauty comes power, and with power comes respect.
: : :
She first desired the young man with this possessive and immature want one feels when in presence for the first time of an object of beauty. He was undeniably handsome; a tall physique with a certain je ne sais quoi, perhaps humour in his mixed expression of calm and nostalgia, unavailable to everything and everyone around him, unattainable to her, but not to the woman beside him, a plump older woman she’d supposed was his mother.
He was not Harry’s brother, she deduced. She wondered who could feel so strongly about him as to present themselves as his family.
After a bit of poking around, she was informed by an awe-struck young Gryffindor that he was Ron Weasley’s older brother. She was directed to a wall where former Head Boys gamely stared at her, flattening their hair under her scrutiny.
She found him under the form of a photograph, a younger William with short hair, beaming at her with confidence.
Confidence. He made Roger Davies appear like a besotted schoolboy.
That he was, to think of it.
Later, she sat herself in the Great Hall so she could observe him. He was eating with appetite, alternatively chatting and listening with attention to a mob of young people. The slight rebel streak she felt coming from him was truly his. He certainly did not look like he was playing a part. He was an unexpected sight in these drab settings led by correctness.
William Weasley supremely annoyed her at first, and she kept the reason to herself. Admitting it, even on the tone of banter, would have opened a window for others to snigger about her shallowness and her self-absorption.
When their eyes met over Harry Potter’s head, Ron’s brother had answered back to her smile with one of his own, before turning again to Harry, unfazed.
: : :
Trainees and employees were mingling during the summer meet-and-greet party that was taking place in a sinister windowless room, somewhere in the torturous corridors of Gringotts. The Goblins were nowhere to be seen. Fleur had the distinct impression that they arranged this gathering with much scorn, cursing against wizards and their need to cluster in tight, chatty groups.
She had been surprised when William Weasley planted himself before her.
“You must be Fleur Delacour,” he said as she was eyeing her glass of wine with much doubt. “We haven’t met, but I was at Hogwarts for the last task of the Triwizard Tournament. I’m Bill, Bill Weasley.”
The nightmare of the last task rose in her, thick and ominous. She fought back the fear that tightened her stomach every time she thought about it.
“Yes, I see you once,” she said. “I did not know you work ‘ere.”
“I just transferred from Egypt.”
She shook the hand he held out to her, and her initial attraction mutated into effervescence. He quickly moistened his lips, and she wondered how it would feel to kiss someone that wasn’t a schoolboy.
“Very good,” Bill suddenly said, looking into his glass. “This wine is good.”
She cringed. He obviously knew nothing about wine. She gave him another chance when he noticed her pout.
“And perhaps you should tell me why I’m wrong,” he said pleasantly.
She indulged into a throaty chuckle, and she jabbered, half in English, a quarter in French, a quarter with her eyes and hands, about the pleasures of wine tasting. She explained with much flourish that wine was not to be solely drunk but appreciated for its colour, its smell, for the feel in one’s mouth. “Senses,” she said as she hesitated, looking for the right words. “Wine, eet is a - a sensual experience.”
“Oh,” he said as she lightly touched his hand so he’d raise his cup before his eyes. “What am I looking at?” he added in a quiet voice as her fingers lingered on his wrist.
“Rich colour in ze rouge,” she replied, making eye contact with him and feeling slightly breathless when he didn’t look away. “Dis, not nice red. Now, you smell eet.”
She touched his hand again, and he brought the cup close to his nose. “Like dis,” she murmured, stretching her neck as she pretended to take a whiff of an imaginary glass. He stared at her, nose in the glass, his eyes so expressive she felt the unusual warmth of blush on her cheeks.
“Dis eez not good wine…eet smells like bad cheese,” she said bluntly.
He chuckled. “I reckon it’s not suppose to smell like that.”
“Oh non. You want to smell-”
“Fleurs?” Patches of red appeared on his cheeks, and to her surprise, he shook his head with a smile, as if saying, Would you believe I’m saying this, now?
She was not surprised that he was flirting - not very well, she was sorry to admit it, but then who did?
He was also laughing at himself in a very endearing manner.
She giggled. “Sometimes, yes. But smelling fruit eez nice, eet will be…er, ‘appier on ze tongue.”
“Tastier,” he whispered.
She bit the inside of her cheeks. “My Eenglish eez not vairy good.”
“My French is trollish, so no worries. You’re doing very well,” he said.
She was not blind. She had the same effect on him that she had on boys and young men: they mollified in front of her and they acted as they truly were - drooling fools or possessive creeps. Wine did that, too. It softened them, leaving their true nature free to emerge. She wondered what she would learn from Bill Weasley. “And now you taste. Terrible, dis, yes?”
He swirled the wine in the glass, looking at it with so much seriousness she could not resist a grin. He sipped on it and grimaced.
Several heads turn their way when she laughed whole-heartedly.
“You’re right. It’s awful.” He flashed her a smile that melt the tension in her stomach. “I know nothing about wine, to be honest. Would you be kind enough to recommend a place where I could taste good wine?”
“Mais oui.” His attitude encouraged her to move forward. “And I could come and taste too.”
She noticed the freckles on his nose, under his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Since I know nothing about it, I’d need an expert with me, right?”
She desired him because he was honest.
: : :
“There are no words, really,” he’d said every time when he greeted her with an appreciative look, as she met with him for a day out.
If she was surprised by his countenance at first, she felt truly happy to leave him speechless, day after day, as they explored Muggle London together or met for lunch at work.
One afternoon, he brought her to the British Museum, and he helped her navigate through the Egyptian exhibition, whispering in her ear fascinating stories of love, desire, revenge, and treason about the Wizards that lived among the Muggles in those times. She relished his confidential tone, his breath on her ear, the slight throaty rasp his voice had when he murmured.
She was walking around in an acute state of arousal, questioning him incessantly so he’d speak again, even if she missed words and sentences. She did not catch all that he was saying; she knew he was talking about doomed lovers, gods, and terrible magical things one would do for power and lust. She let him lead her from one room to the other, wrapped up in those sensual but horrific tales he was regaling her with, wondering about his past there, if he’d had women in his bed, if he’d made love to them.
She was jealous of those imaginary women that sprouted from her mind. She imagined for him women with mystery. Beautiful, elegant, dangerous, and sophisticated. She was consumed by the desire to be one of them.
He’d kissed her in front of Madame Maintenon’s pension with his hand flat on the small of her back. One night, she grabbed his arm, silently asking him to be bolder, and they stepped out of the light.
When he left a while later, she stood alone in the dark. She straightened her shirt, her skin still feverish from his mouth and hands on it, her mind flooded with French words but no translation to offer.
: : :
When he hinted that he was ready for another wine-tasting lesson, she invited him to the pension. Madame Maintenon, her unofficial chaperone, had left for a few days abroad, and Fleur had the house for herself.
He had hesitated before saying yes, with a deliberate pause that had her squirming from things to come. She thought it could be the night.
If he asked, she’d say yes.
If he didn’t ask, she would.
She had charmed lanterns over their head as he sat on the settee. The bottle of wine clunked against the table as she opened it with her hands shaking, conscious that he was staring at her back. She wondered what he was thinking.
She handed him a finely crafted glass. “Look at ze colour. Dis eez beautiful.”
When he accepted it, she plopped down to the cushions scattered on the floor. He did not raise his glass to his eyes. He merely contemplated her, before slipping from the settee to the floor, glass still in hand.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, and her heart fluttered. She was not familiar with that voice of his. She hoped she would hear it again.
She sat on her heels, and she touched his glass with the tip of her fingers. “Ze smell. I promise you, Beel…dis does not smell like ze uzzer one.”
She sighed when he laid down the glass, sliding it away at a safe distance. He leaned towards her and breathed in close to her hair, his cheek slightly brushing against hers. She blew on his earlobe, pressed her mouth on it, and she felt his long, slow exhale against her neck.
“Doesn’t smell like bad cheese, most definitely,” he murmured.
“You theenk you are funny.” She swatted his shoulder, and he reluctantly moved back with a chuckle.
She was half-disheartened that lust was building between them on silly premises.
“And now? What do I do?”
“And now,” she whispered as she impishly touch his mouth with the tips of her fingers, “you taste.”
“Are we still talking about wine?”
His fingers slipped from her knee to her thigh. She loved the dizziness that came with the knowledge that she could light up against his hands.
“Non. You taste.”
“Just me?” His palms trailed on her thighs, her hips, her waist. He was stroking her with his eyes and voice. “Ah…I reckon you meant we. We taste.”
And they did, thoroughly.
: : :
Years later, she is sitting at a table where people are laughing too loudly to be sincere. Pregnancy has slowed her down, so Bill has jumped in to help.
He pours wine to everyone that has joined them for dinner. He grins as he listens to his brothers and their girlfriends; he pats their back, asks questions, laughs at their jokes; he kisses his sister on the cheek; he chats with his father; he massages his mother’s shoulder.
At last, he sits by her side, and he rubs her back with concern. “How was your day?” he whispers as she fidgets with her fork.
It was a hard day, she wants to say. I had a hard time watching your mother cry as she baked a cake for George’s birthday. I felt powerless, so I held her in my arms. I tried my best to find the right words. I wiped away her tears, and I kissed her like a daughter.
She will tell him everything later, in the dark, when he will press himself against her and will stroke both her and her bump.
“I’m tired,” she admits.
Bill shakes his head. “I knew it would be too much for you…why didn’t you let my mother handle this?”
Because, she wants to say, because I knew she needed to be elsewhere than at home, surrounded by memories of Fred and her lingering sadness.
“I wanted to,” she says. “Eet was important for me.”
His voice barely shades through the voices booming around her, but she hears it. “I love you.”
Bill pours himself some wine, and she lets him take a sip before she leans in. “Kiss me.”
She tastes the wine’s raspy tannin with the softness of his mouth. She then bravely chuckles to make sound Molly’s laughter sound less fake when Ron jokes.
“Would you like a cup of water?”
He doesn’t wait for her to answer. The cup is already before her.
She takes a sip, before touching his face so he kisses her again. The way he breathes against her lips triggers a vivid recollection of the first time they made love. He had sighed in her mouth, on her skin, everywhere, igniting small fires in her body every time he moved with her.
That night, she’d wanted to cry out in perfect English, You’ll never know if you’re the first or the fifth because I love you, only you.
His hand meets with hers under the table, and she stares at him as he alleviates his mother’s sadness by complimenting her on the dishes. Shame overcomes her when she wishes for his family to be elsewhere so she could be delivered from their grief.
She would be alone with Bill, and they could deal with the thick onset of desire that makes her core pulse tonight.
: : :