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Fleur Delacour

Ginger and Snow (ginger_and_snow)

Fleur Delacour

Blue Fleur

Ginger and Snow (ginger_and_snow)

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Bill Kiss on Shoulder
“Fleur, Fleur, you up? You up?” Bill’s voice pulls me out of my sleepy haze. “You up? You up?” Of course I am up now. “Did I wake you?” Er, well, yes, yes you did. When I open my eyes his face comes into view, framed by his ginger hair. He has decided to let it grow again, not cut it back. Everyone always says that Charlie is the one with the perfect shade of ginger hair. I disagree. Charlie keeps his cut too short, but no, not my Bill. Even on the rare occasion that he allows me to clip them back some, his spicy locks seem to have a will of their own, continually giving Bill his rebelliously intellectual appearance. He is kneeling beside our bed with his torso across the covers, leaning over me.

“Mmmmmm,” I yawn and stretch. “I am awake now.” Looking around our bedroom I can see that it is still dark. Only the slight silvery shine of the crescent moon strikes the snowy mountain of covers on the bed. For a second, I panic. “It is not morning. Is something wrong, mon amour de gingembre?”

“Nothing, nothing at all, mon amour,” he whispers as he strokes my snow white hair. “You’ve got to come see something.”

“No cher,” I whine, “Let me sleep.” I close my eyes again when I feel his lithe fingers trace down my neck.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t,” he pleads, “Let me carry you.” Before I can respond his hands slip under me and he draws my slender firgure to him easily and I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his bare shoulder. Through the darkness and moonlight I can focus on a few of the ginger freckles on his neck and chest. He carries me through the lounge and sets me down at the large window overlooking our back garden and the edge of the little wood behind our cottage.

“Ma Déesse, il est beau!” (My Goddess, it is beautiful!) I gasp as he smiles and covers me in his embrace. The entire garden, it is coated in a feathery dusting of snow.

“Blanc de neige au printemps, (Snow white in spring,) just like you,” he says before he kisses the back of my neck, “Perfection.” I feel his lips on my skin once more.

“Oui, juste comme nous, juste comme nous,” (Yes, just like us, just like us,) I sigh as his arms tighten.

“Nous sommes comme le gingembre et neigeons, ma Fleur, gingembre et neige,” (We are like ginger and snow, my Fleur, ginger and snow) he says softly against the shell of my ear. I close my eyes and lean back against him.


THIS JOURNAL HAS MOVED TO THE FOLLOWING LOCATION:

gns_fleur

and has become a part of the role-playing game known as Ginger and Snow

ginger_and_snow
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