Sugar Rain
TerrisMoon
Disclaimer – I do not own the characters or the setting, yeah, I don't think I have to clarify that any further. You get the point.
Summary – Rain, Penelo, sheets (yes, bed linens) ... leave it all to your creative imagination. In-Game. One-shot ... vignette ... whatever fits your tastes, call it whatever you feel like calling it. Personally, I'd call it a vignette. Implied pairing. Oh who? You'll see.
She's breathing heavily, her chest is heaving, and she tastes his mingled flavor: the smell of sweat, muskiness, and sweet intoxicating freedom (composed of everything from the outdoors, the grass, the wind, and the rain). Her pigtails are loose, her rubber bands strewn somewhere on the floor, she forgets where they are. She's engrossed in him, in every inch of his rippling muscle, in his scarred skin. She's gripping his sleek skin, making purrs and little screams that curl around his ears.
And then she's pulling back, he's gazing at her face, peering into her round cerulean eyes. He's studying the sound of her voice as he kisses her, studying the steady pitch of it, noticing how it never wavers. Then she remembers who he is, like the realization just tore through her mind like rocks breaking a pond's surface, causing a rippling effect.
He's pulling her back though now, reassuring her with his eyes – his brown eyes that are just dark and solid. She realizes how much it reminds her of Bourbon—his chocolate eyes, because the color's almost swirling almost depthless.
He's smiling sweetly now; he's bucking against her hips. She's instilled that feral hunger in him; he just wants to devour her. He's watching the way her hips gyrate, the way they roll to one side, the way they match his movement. He licks her bottom lip and teases it, nipping softly at the skin, teasing the flesh with his teeth.
He's always so gentle, Penelo thinks amongst the fogginess in her mind.
She's satisfied, she's wasting herself in him, she's pouring herself into him, and he loves this. He's grunting in that smooth velvety purr, that rich tone that makes her want to throw herself at him.
Now her voice is calling his name, its soft at first, oh it's like a soft plea, a little whisper. But now it's growing, yes, now its rising steadily as he notices that her nails are digging into his flesh. Because he's trailing sweet fervent kisses from her collarbone down to her swelling breasts and her hardened nipples almost blindly.
And are those Fran's distinctive footfalls approaching the doorway? Is that her boots clicking against the worm-eaten wood?
Yes, they are.
And are those Ashe's footsteps backtracking to the doorway?
And is his stomach twisting at the thought of Ashe walking on them?
Yes, and it's disturbing him.
Yet now it's too late, for she's rolling her smooth porcelain hips again. She's rubbing them against his groin, and his erection's just throbbing with this ache and he needs her. Now, he's feeling content as he's listening to her screams of ardent ecstasy. She's euphoric, she's making indents in his skin, and she's tracing patterns along his scarred brow with her eyes, all the while kissing his bruising lips.
Now she's closing her eyes, her light lashes are brushing against one another, there's a smile on her face. He's fiddling with her wispy strands of hair, noticing how pallid her skin's become. A murmur falls from her rosy lips before she's falling unceremoniously on top of him. Her body barely crushes his; its rather light like a flower, her torso and legs serving as the stem, her lips serving as the blushing petals.
He's cradling her in his arms, rubbing her skin with his hands, supplying bodily heat to them. His eyes fall upon the glinting brass doorknob. Nearby, on the adjacent wall a round black clock ticks quietly. It's the only noise in the room except for the two lovers' steady heartbeats.
He turns to her, a charming look in his amber eyes; he's mouthing her name, making it roll off his tongue like water droplets sliding down a windowpane. She's laughing like a schoolgirl, her fervent cries has died away long ago, so now she's placid. He rather likes her this way; he tells her, his smooth voice is calming her erratic heartbeat.
Then she hugs him, embraces him with her arms, just enveloping him with all her gracefulness and all her beguiling innocence. And he's losing himself in her, but he's quite sure that Ashe's nearing the door again.
Oh, Penelo remembers the man now, she knows the man who's flipping the light switch on. She remembers who he is and why he's here, she can trace out his name on her tongue, and she can pinpoint his face anywhere.
She can pick out his distinctive gait in a crowd, she can memorize the lilt of his gruff voice, and she can picture the strong contours of his manly anatomy. She knows his body more than any other woman does, and she's always yearning to lose a little bit of herself in him.
She knows him, she knows Basch fon Ronsenburg and he knows her just as well too.
He knows her body, knows the way her tongue tastes, he's memorized the smell of her skin, and he knows the pitch of her voice. He also can tell you her flavor, her taste; he'll say that it's like sugar rain. Yes that it's like an odd mixture of water and brown sugar mixed together. He enjoys her tasting her even if he isn't outspoken enough to admit it to anyone else.
Sure, he knows Penelo's curves; he knows the sloping lines of her body, the way her hips curve into a slight 'C' shape. He knows the swell of her breasts, the firmness of them, and the roundness that they possess.
Her eyelids are drooping and she's falling asleep, she's curled up in his arms. She's safe from the troubles of the world with him. Penelo likes it that way.
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The End