Fic Title: Word Association for the Ev'rybody Get Pink'd challenge
Author: romeo ambiences
Pairings (if applicable) 1x4x1
Rating – R
warnings/Spoilers Language in regards to sexual act.
Word Count: 502
Story Summary: Quatre is associated with the color pink, but not for the reason he thinks.
"Space."
"Black."
"White."
"Color."
"Pink."
"Quatre."
"Wha…why?" spluttered Quatre, indignantly. The indignant look was rather cute on him I thought.
"Oooh…That's harsh man," chastised Duo, making a great show of wincing and shaking his head. He offered Quatre a commiserating look as he added, "Who better to take a potshot than those who love us best… right honey?"
He nudged Hilde who mock-glared at him in return before smiling sunnily. "Yeah. Only I would think to associate Duo with food," she quipped, dancing out of reach before Duo could lightly bop her.
"Years. It's been years since I wore a pink shirt," grumbled Quatre, giving me the evil eye-or his version of it-which somehow I found adorable as well. I did know better than to ever mention that fact to him. He had never withheld sex as punishment, but if the bedroom were ever a battlefield, I knew I would surrender first.
Quatre rose to his feet. "Anyone interested in cake?"
"Is it my favorite, Q?" asked Duo, tongue licking his lips.
Coughcough. "Food. Duo." Coughcough. "It's got your name on it."
Quatre was practically stalked to the kitchen by Duo, his braid wagging like a puppy's tail.
Death by Chocolate was too heavy for me, but Quatre, ever-considerate, had some zabaglione with fresh blueberries (high in antioxidants) on hand. He does know me well …..and loves me still.
Hours later our house was quiet, peaceful. Duo and Hilde had wanted to scope out a new, and from all reports, lively dance club, but we had graciously declined the offer to accompany them. It wasn't really our style. (OK so Quatre provided the gracious and I supplied the decline.)
Standing on our back porch, I watched fireflies perform their bioluminescent courting rituals and smoothed my hands on the rail, searching for any imperfection my sandpapering may have missed. There wasn't one.
Quatre soon joined me, wrapping his arms around me tightly and sighing with contentment. "Do you really think of me when you think of pink?" he whispered, his voice soft and amused. His breath was warmer and sweeter in my ear than the Italian custard had been to my palate.
Yes."
He snorted.
I think of pink when I think of Quatre. The blush on his cheeks when we build a fort in the snow. The rose of his lips after we kiss. The flush of his pale body beneath me as he arches up to meet me as he is just on the edge of his climax. But most especially, the pink, pink moist heat of his tongue licking softly on my nipples, dipping into my navel, sliding slowly down my thighs, swirling around my balls, and lapping eagerly along my cock.
"It doesn't have anything to do with the shirt."
He's surprised. "What does it have to do with then?"
I turn around and kiss him. I don't think I'll tell him, but I may show him. I've always wanted a mirror above our bed.