Notes: I started off writing a Sonny/Tawni fic, but I kind of got sidetracked. You know, in a way that means I started a whole different story featuring another pairing. The actual chapters for this fic will be much longer than this (and probably a lot less suggestive xD). And if you haven't guessed, this is femmeslash.
Also, I was going to give this ship a name, but once I figured out it actually had the potential to be something like "Pony," "Portly," "Porny," and "Syn," I just stopped thinking about it altogether. O_o
Disclaimer: I don't own this show or these characters.
Prologue:
Dreamboat
Portlyn is bent over the sink so her tie touches the faucet; she's painting her lips exotic with a worn-down tube of lipstick, and Sonny can't help but notice.
Of course, that's not really anything weird since everyone notices Portlyn.
Sonny doesn't know if she's necessarily noticing the same things—the green eyes and twirls of dark-honey hair spiraling around skin like the inside of a ripe peach—but considering the first thing Sonny said to Portlyn was that she had nice legs, Sonny thinks she sees Portlyn just like everyone else does.
Right now Sonny watches the way Portlyn delicately smudges the lipstick at the corner of her mouth with the very tip of her index finger; the way she simultaneously pulls a feathery tissue from her clutch before pursing her lips around it so the red from her mouth smears off and looks like a pressed flower between the pages of a book.
She's hypnotizing in the same way the delicate things people like to keep on display are: those bright paintings of jewel-colored flowers; the pearly, blown-crystal globes; and ceramic figurines with painted lips, long legs, and pointed toes.
It somehow makes Sonny want to watch Portlyn a lot more, even when she happens to be doing uninteresting things like dabbing the excess makeup from her face.
Suddenly Sonny's feet feel uncomfortably wet, and she jumps back and looks down to realize the sink water is sloshing over the edge, throwing the moment back in her face like a broken water balloon. She bursts back into the bright-bathroom reality, realizing there are suds from the soapy water sopping through her sleeves.
Hands scrambling over the mess to shut off the faucet, she immediately begins to feel like an idiot--choosing the sink she knew was clogged and then actually getting distracted long enough for the dirty water to crawl over the brim and onto the ratty shoes she brought from home and the too-expensive shirt she bought in LA.
Portlyn is staring when she looks back up.
"You're wet," Portlyn murmurs, and the way she says it, it's like she means something entirely different by it. She looks wickedly amused. The water is dripping loudly in Sonny's ears, the sound throwing itself against the tiled walls like kamikaze drumbeat. Portlyn leans forward, smirking, and Sonny almost feels like Portlyn turned her into a pile of cement with the slant of her lips. "Here." She grins and flicks her tissue at Sonny, and it lands teepee'ed over the mint-green tiles like a perching dove, blood running all down its pale back.
As Portlyn practically wafts from the bathroom, her skirt swishing like hair and her heels click clicking like a pulse, Sonny realizes that it was watching the girl-dictated social sadism on Mackenzie Falls that Sonny first learned that some girls are petty and cruel.
It's right outside the set of the same show where she learns that girls are also erotic.
Sonny had always known that some people she met in life would be nightmares. What she hadn't realized was that there were others who were wet dreams.