Morgan (Hermione/Charlie, All Ages)
Story Title: Morgan (1/2)
Author: squaredancer
Rating: All ages.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Hermione/Charlie
Challenge: 100hp_fics -> Prompt Table (#95 - Costume)
Summary: Hermione could think of no reply to that, other than to hold her own hand out. “Very well then, if you have already chosen your poison, who am I to do anything but oblige?”
Disclaimer: All recognisable content is not the property of me... so, basically everything :P
Warnings: None, really. ^_^
Notes: Not beta-read, again. *hides in shame*
Hermione Granger was having a good time.
She certainly hadn’t expected to have a good time, nor to take such pleasure in what she normally shied far away from. Remaining in the company of “high gentry” was not really what Hermione considered to be her cup of tea.
Usually she much preferred to be locked up at home, or better yet, ensconced in the library, reading tome upon tome of ancient material and intelligent matter. No matter how hard anyone tried to amuse her with polite conversation, Hermione never seemed to be able to find discussions on the current state of dress (or undress) of one of their fellow party-goers much more exciting than watching paint dry, or watching grass grow (which rather became a moot point with the modern influence of menial magic-casting these days anyway).
Nevertheless, Hermione was smiling. And dancing, and laughing, and flirting.
Fleur smiled indulgingly at the petite brunette who was wrapped in the arms of some attractive gentlemen that she couldn’t quite recognise as he took her for a turn about the dance floor.
Fleur had more than expected Hermione to turn down the invitation to the masked ball she had been asked to attend, and thus she had had more then enough time to prepare a plan of attack when it came to the Hermione’s wall of defense. Because Fleur certainly couldn’t go sans partner, with Bill being out of the country on one of those damnable ‘missions’. Fleur certainly didn’t think that trouncing around a three thousand year old pile of rocks covered in dust in order to collect a few wind chimes could be technically called a mission, seeing as the word ‘mission’ conjured far more grandiose images than Bill’s actual job allowed for.
At any rate, Fleur had needed a partner, and quick-smart.
“I simply refuse,” Hermione had said from the word ‘go’, folding her arms over her chest and raising her nose into the air as symbol of impenetrable resolve. “You certainly won’t be dragging me along to one of those hooty-tooty affairs so that people can look at me funny, wonder at my inability to eat with the right fork and snigger at my atrocious fashion sense behind my back.”
“Oh, ‘ermione!” Fleur admonished. “Your fashion sense just needs a little bit of guidance, non? I would not say zat eet wasn’t salvable.”
Hermione glared. “If you’re trying to persuade me to go, you’re failing abysmally.”
“Nonsense, ma cherie!” Fleur declared, walking over and throwing Hermione’s wardrobe doors open. She grimaced at the dismal state of affairs within. “We must find you something to wear, ‘ermione. We cannot ‘ave you looking odd with no costume, can we?”
“Costume?” Hermione demanded, eyes widening in both horror and despair. “You can bet your life I’m not going to any bloody dress up party!”
Fleur smiled indulgently at her. “ ‘ermione, cherie, you must not make promises zat you do not eentend to keep.”
“Oh, I intend on keeping it, I assure you,” Hermione told her haughtily as she turned to pull her unruly hair into a tight braid so that it would stay out of her way while she went about her chores. Then Fleur gasped loudly and Hermione’s attention was directed back towards the attractive blonde rooting through her wardrobe.
“Eet ees perfect!” Fleur cried, holding out the slinky red dress that one of Hermione’s aunties had given her a few years before, in an inane attempt to ‘broaden her horizons’. And thus, it had never been worn. Not only was it the exact opposite of anything Hermione would consider wearing, it also had an extremely low neckline and, at a glance, a few high slits in the skirt, too. Hermione winced.
Her auntie had said it had been quite expensive, though Hermione certainly couldn’t see why. It couldn’t have cost more than a few pounds to make, if the amount of material used was any indication.
“No.”
“Oh, yes darling!”
“I refuse.”
“You will enjoy yourself, ma cherie, I promise.”
“I don’t believe you, even for a moment.”
“Zen zat ees just too bad, non, because you are coming.”
Fleur smiled, wondering at how she always managed to cajole Hermione into doing things completely out of her comfort zone. Hermione always made a point of not thanking her afterwards, but that didn’t matter. Fleur knew it was all appearances, after all.
Hermione walked over, slightly breathless from her dance with yet another handsome masked stranger.
“Circe! I’m positively beat.”
“And I would be too, eef I were dancing quite as much as you, oui?”
Hermione smiled brightly. “I can’t help it,” Hermione countered, her eyes amused, “that men flock to meet the Morgan Le Fay of legends.”
Fleur grinned before grabbing Hermione’s hand. “Come, we will sit down for some dinner. I am famished, and I am sure zat you could use something to eat as well.”
Hermione nodded and followed Fleur’s lead, sitting down at the table and ordering her dinner from the feather-clad waiter carrying what she presumed to be a large tray full of worms.
***
There was something intriguing about a witch dressed in costume as a witch, Charlie thought. Especially a witch with the reputation of being seductive, sometimes cruel and more often than not highly sensual.
It had been her hair that had caught his eye first. It was brown, like hazels and chocolate and the colour of his sister’s eyes. It spilled down her back in torrents, and swung through the air as she danced. He was sure it couldn’t be a wig, though that was a possibility due to the costumes (or lack thereof in some cases, Charlie thought as he looked around at some of the costumes that had been donned by the supposedly ‘polite’ assemblage of people).
Charlie steered his dance partner across the floor, trying not to lose sight of her as she left her current partner and left the floor.
Her dress flared provocatively with every step, revealing shapely calves and moving on to expose the tender flesh of her thighs. Charlie suppressed a groan at the very concept of slipping his hand slowly along the band of the slit, up, up and underneath the slinky red material.
The dress was charming in its own way, with old-fashioned frills that tapered out from the tips of the sleeves, and while the neckline was low, the collar was high, curving around her neck and preventing her from wearing dangly earrings. The skirt was bunched at the waist, causing it to fall in gentle folds about her legs, the slits near invisible when she was stationary.
Charlie watched as the real life incarnation of Morgan Le Fay sat down to dinner with her friend, laughing and talking quite happily as they waited for their food.
As he parted ways with his partner, Charlie cast one last glance at Morgan before heading straight to the bar for a few stiff drinks.
***
“So?”
“So what?” Hermione asked, finishing off her drink and pushing the finished plate of food away from her.
“So ‘ow was the fireman?”
“Oh,” Hermione said, a blush staining her cheeks. “He was all right. Nice looking, and a good enough dancer.”
“But?”
“Who said there was going to be a but?”
“I know you, ‘ermione.” Fleur smiled. “If zere was no ‘but’ I would ‘ave ‘eard so by now, non?”
Hermione thought for a moment before realising Fleur was quite right in her assumption. She sighed. “He kept touching my bum,” she told Fleur, raising the side of her lip in disapproval. “It was just rude… What? It was!”
Fleur stopped giggling and pulled Hermione closer. “Yes, eet was rude. But if you ‘ad been even a little bit attracted to ‘im, you wouldn’t ‘ave minded, I think.”
Hermione’s eyes widened as she took in what Fleur was saying. “No!” she argued. “I- I could never approve of someone taking advantage of me like that. Especially someone I’d never met before in my life, and when I can’t even see their face properly!” Hermione gestured wildly at the mask obscuring half of her face from view.
“So you are worried zat zey will be very ugly underneath?” Fleur giggled.
“No!” Hermione shook her head and looked flustered. “That, that’s not what I mean at all!”
“Isn’t eet?” Fleur asked innocently, smirking as Hermione stopped talking to flap her mouth open and closed like a fish.
“I zaw someone who I zeenk would be veery attractive without ‘is mask, you know.”
Before Hermione could think long enough to stop herself, she’d blurted out, “Where?” Fleur grinned again, pleased with herself.
“Ze man with ze black cape,” Fleur said, nodding her head in the direction of a man having a drink at the bar. “ ‘e was watching you all through zat last dance, ‘ermione. And,” she continued, as if it were of utmost importance, “ ‘e ‘as a sword!”
Hermione looked over to where Fleur was nodding, noting that the man did in fact have a sword hung in a scabbard over his slim hips. She hoped it was only for pretend.
Hermione couldn’t call Fleur a liar, though. The man was certainly attractive, and the air of sensual magnetism was only emphasised by the darkly foreboding costume he was wearing. He was in all black,, with large black boots, a loose fitting shirt and a flowing black cape. He wore no hat, only a black cloth obscuring his head, tied at the back.
Hermione felt a jolt in her stomach as she realised that it was his mask that gave the costume the most resonance, the most dangerous appeal. It was not plastic and masquerade-like, as the everyone else's were. It was black cloth, wound and tied behind his head, just a real bandit would have done it.
Combined with the tanned skin of his face, he looked like some kind Spanish toreador, blatantly arrogant and aware of his appeal to impressionable young women.
And as much as she hated it, Hermione felt that she would be quite willing to be impressionable if he were to turn the charm on her.
Hermione’s heart jumped into her throat as his head turned and his eyes fell straight to her own. In any normal circumstance she would have looked away, shied from the intense light in his eyes and tried to carry on the rest of the night without looking in his direction again.
But these weren’t normal circumstances. She was Morgan Le Fay, and Morgan would never have been afraid of a man. Morgan was a temptress, a sorceress, extremely powerful and aware of herself and her appeal. Tonight, she was Morgan, and tomorrow she would be plain old Hermione.
No one would ever connect the dots, they were too completely different personas.
And so she didn’t look away. Instead, she let a grin of satisfaction slowly spread across her face, watching as the bandit narrowed his eyes and quirked a side of his mouth up in response.
The bandit got up of the chair, disregarding the last of his drink left on the counter and threading his way through the throng of people between him and Hermione’s table. All she could do was watch.
“ ‘ermione!” Fleur squealed, grabbing onto Hermione’s arm and causing her to look over at the excited blonde fairy. “Eet is the black caped man! Do not look, for ‘e ees coming over ‘ere. I think ‘e will ask you to dance, cherie!”
Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the very idea of the bandit asking her to dance. One wayward smile from Morgan Le Fay, and Hermione was going to get to dance with the most attractive man in the room!
She looked around, her gaze instantly drawn to that of the bandit, who was now much closer to the table than he had been before. From here she could see his intense gaze with more precision, could read the concentration in his eyes, and the feeling it provoked within her fairly resonated around the table.
Without thinking, only feeling, Hermione stood, turning to face him as he finally reached her and halted. Every single one of her instincts was standing to full attention as a lazy grin drew across the bandits mouth.
“Care to dance, Morgan?” he asked, holding out a powerful hand towards her.
It took half of Hermione’s willpower not to turn tail and scamper. It took the other half not to take his hand and his accept his offer without thought nor notion.
It was the mention of Morgan that was her undoing. “Do you put your life in such jeopardy, sir?” Hermione asked, cocking her head to the side and ignoring the twittering giggles of Fleur behind her.
“Risks?” he repeated. “Danger is my middle name.” He smirked at her. “Though I see no danger in asking you to dance, fair lady.”
Hermione gave a smirk of her own in reply. “Oh, you don’t? You pay no heed to the duplicity of Morgan Le Fay? ‘..but if the lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag, triumphant, mocks him with glad sorcery till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee’?” Hermione quoted one of her favourite poems, smiling smugly when she saw his eyebrows raise at the challenge. She was sure he would be completely baffled by her reference, as it had been a poem from a Muggle novel she had read some years ago.
“I find it hard to be afraid of a woman who, from the very same poem, is described as being found, ‘By some lost knight upon a precipice,-- Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss: As that of some frail elfin lady,--light as are the foggy moonbeams,--filmy white…’”
Hermione’s eyes widened with shock as she realised that he was, in fact, quoting the very same poem as she, regardless of its origin. She recovered quickly, however, determined not to let him get the better of her. “All the same, bandit, you cannot take people at their face value.”
“And yet, I am willing to take my chances, for a dance.”
Hermione could think of no reply to that, other than to hold her own hand out. “Very well then, if you have already chosen your poison, who am I to do anything but oblige?”
So, I realise I still have one more Princess and the Pea chapter to go, but when I went to write it my muse struck me with a completely different scenario. :P I have to exorcise the devils before I can write that last Princess and the Pea chapter out, because they won't leave me alone. It was only supposed to be a one-shot, but it got a bit longer than I expected, so I split it. Expect smut in the next one :P
Look on the bright side - I've momentarily moved away from wet-rain-sex. ^_^ Yay for diversity!
And I'm having some worries over my Fleur characterisation. ^_^ I've never been able to get accents down, and I don't think this one was any exception.
Author: squaredancer
Rating: All ages.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Hermione/Charlie
Challenge: 100hp_fics -> Prompt Table (#95 - Costume)
Summary: Hermione could think of no reply to that, other than to hold her own hand out. “Very well then, if you have already chosen your poison, who am I to do anything but oblige?”
Disclaimer: All recognisable content is not the property of me... so, basically everything :P
Warnings: None, really. ^_^
Notes: Not beta-read, again. *hides in shame*
Hermione Granger was having a good time.
She certainly hadn’t expected to have a good time, nor to take such pleasure in what she normally shied far away from. Remaining in the company of “high gentry” was not really what Hermione considered to be her cup of tea.
Usually she much preferred to be locked up at home, or better yet, ensconced in the library, reading tome upon tome of ancient material and intelligent matter. No matter how hard anyone tried to amuse her with polite conversation, Hermione never seemed to be able to find discussions on the current state of dress (or undress) of one of their fellow party-goers much more exciting than watching paint dry, or watching grass grow (which rather became a moot point with the modern influence of menial magic-casting these days anyway).
Nevertheless, Hermione was smiling. And dancing, and laughing, and flirting.
Fleur smiled indulgingly at the petite brunette who was wrapped in the arms of some attractive gentlemen that she couldn’t quite recognise as he took her for a turn about the dance floor.
Fleur had more than expected Hermione to turn down the invitation to the masked ball she had been asked to attend, and thus she had had more then enough time to prepare a plan of attack when it came to the Hermione’s wall of defense. Because Fleur certainly couldn’t go sans partner, with Bill being out of the country on one of those damnable ‘missions’. Fleur certainly didn’t think that trouncing around a three thousand year old pile of rocks covered in dust in order to collect a few wind chimes could be technically called a mission, seeing as the word ‘mission’ conjured far more grandiose images than Bill’s actual job allowed for.
At any rate, Fleur had needed a partner, and quick-smart.
“I simply refuse,” Hermione had said from the word ‘go’, folding her arms over her chest and raising her nose into the air as symbol of impenetrable resolve. “You certainly won’t be dragging me along to one of those hooty-tooty affairs so that people can look at me funny, wonder at my inability to eat with the right fork and snigger at my atrocious fashion sense behind my back.”
“Oh, ‘ermione!” Fleur admonished. “Your fashion sense just needs a little bit of guidance, non? I would not say zat eet wasn’t salvable.”
Hermione glared. “If you’re trying to persuade me to go, you’re failing abysmally.”
“Nonsense, ma cherie!” Fleur declared, walking over and throwing Hermione’s wardrobe doors open. She grimaced at the dismal state of affairs within. “We must find you something to wear, ‘ermione. We cannot ‘ave you looking odd with no costume, can we?”
“Costume?” Hermione demanded, eyes widening in both horror and despair. “You can bet your life I’m not going to any bloody dress up party!”
Fleur smiled indulgently at her. “ ‘ermione, cherie, you must not make promises zat you do not eentend to keep.”
“Oh, I intend on keeping it, I assure you,” Hermione told her haughtily as she turned to pull her unruly hair into a tight braid so that it would stay out of her way while she went about her chores. Then Fleur gasped loudly and Hermione’s attention was directed back towards the attractive blonde rooting through her wardrobe.
“Eet ees perfect!” Fleur cried, holding out the slinky red dress that one of Hermione’s aunties had given her a few years before, in an inane attempt to ‘broaden her horizons’. And thus, it had never been worn. Not only was it the exact opposite of anything Hermione would consider wearing, it also had an extremely low neckline and, at a glance, a few high slits in the skirt, too. Hermione winced.
Her auntie had said it had been quite expensive, though Hermione certainly couldn’t see why. It couldn’t have cost more than a few pounds to make, if the amount of material used was any indication.
“No.”
“Oh, yes darling!”
“I refuse.”
“You will enjoy yourself, ma cherie, I promise.”
“I don’t believe you, even for a moment.”
“Zen zat ees just too bad, non, because you are coming.”
Fleur smiled, wondering at how she always managed to cajole Hermione into doing things completely out of her comfort zone. Hermione always made a point of not thanking her afterwards, but that didn’t matter. Fleur knew it was all appearances, after all.
Hermione walked over, slightly breathless from her dance with yet another handsome masked stranger.
“Circe! I’m positively beat.”
“And I would be too, eef I were dancing quite as much as you, oui?”
Hermione smiled brightly. “I can’t help it,” Hermione countered, her eyes amused, “that men flock to meet the Morgan Le Fay of legends.”
Fleur grinned before grabbing Hermione’s hand. “Come, we will sit down for some dinner. I am famished, and I am sure zat you could use something to eat as well.”
Hermione nodded and followed Fleur’s lead, sitting down at the table and ordering her dinner from the feather-clad waiter carrying what she presumed to be a large tray full of worms.
***
There was something intriguing about a witch dressed in costume as a witch, Charlie thought. Especially a witch with the reputation of being seductive, sometimes cruel and more often than not highly sensual.
It had been her hair that had caught his eye first. It was brown, like hazels and chocolate and the colour of his sister’s eyes. It spilled down her back in torrents, and swung through the air as she danced. He was sure it couldn’t be a wig, though that was a possibility due to the costumes (or lack thereof in some cases, Charlie thought as he looked around at some of the costumes that had been donned by the supposedly ‘polite’ assemblage of people).
Charlie steered his dance partner across the floor, trying not to lose sight of her as she left her current partner and left the floor.
Her dress flared provocatively with every step, revealing shapely calves and moving on to expose the tender flesh of her thighs. Charlie suppressed a groan at the very concept of slipping his hand slowly along the band of the slit, up, up and underneath the slinky red material.
The dress was charming in its own way, with old-fashioned frills that tapered out from the tips of the sleeves, and while the neckline was low, the collar was high, curving around her neck and preventing her from wearing dangly earrings. The skirt was bunched at the waist, causing it to fall in gentle folds about her legs, the slits near invisible when she was stationary.
Charlie watched as the real life incarnation of Morgan Le Fay sat down to dinner with her friend, laughing and talking quite happily as they waited for their food.
As he parted ways with his partner, Charlie cast one last glance at Morgan before heading straight to the bar for a few stiff drinks.
***
“So?”
“So what?” Hermione asked, finishing off her drink and pushing the finished plate of food away from her.
“So ‘ow was the fireman?”
“Oh,” Hermione said, a blush staining her cheeks. “He was all right. Nice looking, and a good enough dancer.”
“But?”
“Who said there was going to be a but?”
“I know you, ‘ermione.” Fleur smiled. “If zere was no ‘but’ I would ‘ave ‘eard so by now, non?”
Hermione thought for a moment before realising Fleur was quite right in her assumption. She sighed. “He kept touching my bum,” she told Fleur, raising the side of her lip in disapproval. “It was just rude… What? It was!”
Fleur stopped giggling and pulled Hermione closer. “Yes, eet was rude. But if you ‘ad been even a little bit attracted to ‘im, you wouldn’t ‘ave minded, I think.”
Hermione’s eyes widened as she took in what Fleur was saying. “No!” she argued. “I- I could never approve of someone taking advantage of me like that. Especially someone I’d never met before in my life, and when I can’t even see their face properly!” Hermione gestured wildly at the mask obscuring half of her face from view.
“So you are worried zat zey will be very ugly underneath?” Fleur giggled.
“No!” Hermione shook her head and looked flustered. “That, that’s not what I mean at all!”
“Isn’t eet?” Fleur asked innocently, smirking as Hermione stopped talking to flap her mouth open and closed like a fish.
“I zaw someone who I zeenk would be veery attractive without ‘is mask, you know.”
Before Hermione could think long enough to stop herself, she’d blurted out, “Where?” Fleur grinned again, pleased with herself.
“Ze man with ze black cape,” Fleur said, nodding her head in the direction of a man having a drink at the bar. “ ‘e was watching you all through zat last dance, ‘ermione. And,” she continued, as if it were of utmost importance, “ ‘e ‘as a sword!”
Hermione looked over to where Fleur was nodding, noting that the man did in fact have a sword hung in a scabbard over his slim hips. She hoped it was only for pretend.
Hermione couldn’t call Fleur a liar, though. The man was certainly attractive, and the air of sensual magnetism was only emphasised by the darkly foreboding costume he was wearing. He was in all black,, with large black boots, a loose fitting shirt and a flowing black cape. He wore no hat, only a black cloth obscuring his head, tied at the back.
Hermione felt a jolt in her stomach as she realised that it was his mask that gave the costume the most resonance, the most dangerous appeal. It was not plastic and masquerade-like, as the everyone else's were. It was black cloth, wound and tied behind his head, just a real bandit would have done it.
Combined with the tanned skin of his face, he looked like some kind Spanish toreador, blatantly arrogant and aware of his appeal to impressionable young women.
And as much as she hated it, Hermione felt that she would be quite willing to be impressionable if he were to turn the charm on her.
Hermione’s heart jumped into her throat as his head turned and his eyes fell straight to her own. In any normal circumstance she would have looked away, shied from the intense light in his eyes and tried to carry on the rest of the night without looking in his direction again.
But these weren’t normal circumstances. She was Morgan Le Fay, and Morgan would never have been afraid of a man. Morgan was a temptress, a sorceress, extremely powerful and aware of herself and her appeal. Tonight, she was Morgan, and tomorrow she would be plain old Hermione.
No one would ever connect the dots, they were too completely different personas.
And so she didn’t look away. Instead, she let a grin of satisfaction slowly spread across her face, watching as the bandit narrowed his eyes and quirked a side of his mouth up in response.
The bandit got up of the chair, disregarding the last of his drink left on the counter and threading his way through the throng of people between him and Hermione’s table. All she could do was watch.
“ ‘ermione!” Fleur squealed, grabbing onto Hermione’s arm and causing her to look over at the excited blonde fairy. “Eet is the black caped man! Do not look, for ‘e ees coming over ‘ere. I think ‘e will ask you to dance, cherie!”
Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the very idea of the bandit asking her to dance. One wayward smile from Morgan Le Fay, and Hermione was going to get to dance with the most attractive man in the room!
She looked around, her gaze instantly drawn to that of the bandit, who was now much closer to the table than he had been before. From here she could see his intense gaze with more precision, could read the concentration in his eyes, and the feeling it provoked within her fairly resonated around the table.
Without thinking, only feeling, Hermione stood, turning to face him as he finally reached her and halted. Every single one of her instincts was standing to full attention as a lazy grin drew across the bandits mouth.
“Care to dance, Morgan?” he asked, holding out a powerful hand towards her.
It took half of Hermione’s willpower not to turn tail and scamper. It took the other half not to take his hand and his accept his offer without thought nor notion.
It was the mention of Morgan that was her undoing. “Do you put your life in such jeopardy, sir?” Hermione asked, cocking her head to the side and ignoring the twittering giggles of Fleur behind her.
“Risks?” he repeated. “Danger is my middle name.” He smirked at her. “Though I see no danger in asking you to dance, fair lady.”
Hermione gave a smirk of her own in reply. “Oh, you don’t? You pay no heed to the duplicity of Morgan Le Fay? ‘..but if the lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag, triumphant, mocks him with glad sorcery till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee’?” Hermione quoted one of her favourite poems, smiling smugly when she saw his eyebrows raise at the challenge. She was sure he would be completely baffled by her reference, as it had been a poem from a Muggle novel she had read some years ago.
“I find it hard to be afraid of a woman who, from the very same poem, is described as being found, ‘By some lost knight upon a precipice,-- Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss: As that of some frail elfin lady,--light as are the foggy moonbeams,--filmy white…’”
Hermione’s eyes widened with shock as she realised that he was, in fact, quoting the very same poem as she, regardless of its origin. She recovered quickly, however, determined not to let him get the better of her. “All the same, bandit, you cannot take people at their face value.”
“And yet, I am willing to take my chances, for a dance.”
Hermione could think of no reply to that, other than to hold her own hand out. “Very well then, if you have already chosen your poison, who am I to do anything but oblige?”
So, I realise I still have one more Princess and the Pea chapter to go, but when I went to write it my muse struck me with a completely different scenario. :P I have to exorcise the devils before I can write that last Princess and the Pea chapter out, because they won't leave me alone. It was only supposed to be a one-shot, but it got a bit longer than I expected, so I split it. Expect smut in the next one :P
Look on the bright side - I've momentarily moved away from wet-rain-sex. ^_^ Yay for diversity!
And I'm having some worries over my Fleur characterisation. ^_^ I've never been able to get accents down, and I don't think this one was any exception.