Author: Maiden of the Moon PM
They finally found a bit of happiness. . . a collection of ficlets based upon Rosette and Chrono's last six months together. [Anime based, RxC, spoilers for the last episode.]Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Chapters: 7 - Words: 4,631 - Reviews: 42 - Favs: 35 - Follows: 17 - Updated: 08-19-05 - Published: 08-09-05 - id: 2526414
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Author's Note: This will be, more or less, a sister collection to my story 'Ticks of the Clock'. Originally they were all going to be chapters in said fic, but because they (and there is a growing number of them) have a common factor (the fact that they take place during those 6 "alone" months), I figured I'd group them by themselves to avoid confusion. Other than that, they will be written in a nearly identical format to those moments in TotC, will still be ranging from humor to angst to romance to stupidity, and will continue to be nothing more than seconds passing between Rosette and Chrono.
I hope you enjoy this new collection.
WARNING: Spoilers (ranging from subtle to glaring) for the last episode of the Chrono Crusade anime.
CHAPTER WARNING: HEAVY, SUGGESTIVE LIME.
She'd never liked thunderstorms.
A kiss, a kiss. It always started with a kiss, a kiss and a cuddle to reassure her that he was there, always there. Always there and ready to protect her. Always, always, always. . . his arms wrapped around her middle, pulling her close; breath hot upon her cool skin, head resting against her breasts. A feeling she found that she loved— spider-webbing hair wrapping slowly around her body; encased in a cocoon of silky purple. The sensation was indescribable. . . on her bare, clammy flesh. . .
No, not ever. The echoing scream of rain; the exploding rumble of thunder; the streaking fire of lightening. They always seemed to awaken something within her, some dormant emotion. An emotion that resembled fear, glittering in her eyes like unreleased tears. In those moments of panic, she always seemed to wither; regress; change from a 16-year-old bearcat to a frightened 12-year-old.
A flash; bodies arching in the storm-light. Shirt buttons flew and popped and clattered, skirts and pants pealed roughly off of quivering limbs. Hips met and molded and ached, blonde and violet tangling. She shivered with pleasure as his nails raked down her bare back, bringing forth welts of searing ecstasy. A moan oozed from her candy lips, lips which she pressed hungrily to his tanned chest; enjoying the taste of sweat and forest.
That terror. . . It happened at Seventh Bell.—those wide, scared eyes— It happened at the convent.—those trembling, gripping fingers—It was happening here, too.— they never ceased to haunt him.
Mouths met for a second time, more desperate than before. Tearing and biting and taking, taking, taking—stealing the sweetness of love and lust. They were drowning in it, that thick downpour of desire that was filling the room, their lungs, their veins. Unable to breathe. . . Tongues engaged in a skillful battle for another long beat, fingers intertwining as legs did the same.
But things were different, now. No longer did they need to sneak, to shroud themselves in the accepting shadows, as they'd been forced to do during the storms they'd weathered at the orphanage and the Order. No, here they could lie together for as long as they wanted, devouring the other's comfort and warmth as if it were food—food for the soul.
She pulled back just long enough to admire him, a thin strand of saliva connecting their mouths. He blushed under her gaze, another bolt of lightening illuminating their sin. Neither minded; instead began to stroke once more, hands running up and down and sideways— memorizing territory. His teeth reacquainted themselves with her neck, renewing their Contract with a burst of blood and burning bliss.
Here, they could touch. Here, they could comfort. Here, they could be—without having to hide or explain or justify their actions.
"Rosette. . ." he groaned, trembling with need; insides boiling like a white-hot inferno. She replied with his own name, airy and sultry; savoring the crackling energy that danced beneath her skin whenever he brushed her, held her close. Nothing else mattered—nothing in the world. Nothing but the other. . . and being as close as possible. They kissed again, and again, and again, about to explode with emotion . . .
Yes, here they could touch. Here they could embrace. Here they could love.
. . . until the two became one in the rain; crying out with the thunder and welcoming the night.
Here. . . they could enjoy thunderstorms.