Winning, losing, black, white, the business of binaries, of boundaries, of stark polarities between which a rainbow of shades of gray unfurls with all the possibilities that won't be shaped into something, can't be shoved into boxes, behind giant desks, into glass-walled observation cells to be gloried over by a mad scientist rotting from the inside out. The only victories Aerith is interested in are the ones everyone can share, the ones that matter for the Planet and, consequently, everyone on it. Where Rufus would say mine, Aerith says ours, the wild spread of creation running face first into the clean, clinical lines of the regimented order some people think it's better off slotted into.
Maybe she deserves to win something, maybe she deserves a straight clear road and the song of the Planet in her ear speaking clearly, without the veneer of puzzles and plot holes, maybe she deserves to see the shape and the scope of the task that is uniquely hers.
Maybe nobody gets what they deserve.
He can deal in reparations, in balanced ledgers, but Aerith moves towards warmth, as she does now, with the taste of his mouth - sharp with scotch, sharp because it's his - and the sweep of his hand traveling up her back leaving her body buzzing with rapt attention. Palm curving against his jaw, she cradles his face, the feel of his skin against her own leaving her riddled with a desire she can liken to past experiences, but there's a voracity here too, something that gives this feeling claws of its own, that draws her hand down to curl tightly in the front of his already wrinkled shirt and wrinkle it further with all the relish of a person who isn't accustomed to taking.
The drinks behind that yearning long forgotten, she's breathless when he pulls away to look at her, lips wet and swollen, eyes bright as they study his face through her eyelashes. It doesn't last long. It doesn't have to. His face, his hair, the look in his eyes, she catches them all before he pulls her in to kiss again.
In a soft rustle of tulle, Aerith shifts until her knees are planted in the plush hotel carpet on either side of his thighs, her skirt bunched high on her hips, her grip reasserting itself in his shirt, pulling harder than before and encouraging him closer while her head tips back far enough to afford her the space to murmur– ] I'm taking, not you.
forgive me i was spiritually vexed and listening to a lot of taylor swift at the time
Winning, losing, black, white, the business of binaries, of boundaries, of stark polarities between which a rainbow of shades of gray unfurls with all the possibilities that won't be shaped into something, can't be shoved into boxes, behind giant desks, into glass-walled observation cells to be gloried over by a mad scientist rotting from the inside out. The only victories Aerith is interested in are the ones everyone can share, the ones that matter for the Planet and, consequently, everyone on it. Where Rufus would say mine, Aerith says ours, the wild spread of creation running face first into the clean, clinical lines of the regimented order some people think it's better off slotted into.
Maybe she deserves to win something, maybe she deserves a straight clear road and the song of the Planet in her ear speaking clearly, without the veneer of puzzles and plot holes, maybe she deserves to see the shape and the scope of the task that is uniquely hers.
Maybe nobody gets what they deserve.
He can deal in reparations, in balanced ledgers, but Aerith moves towards warmth, as she does now, with the taste of his mouth - sharp with scotch, sharp because it's his - and the sweep of his hand traveling up her back leaving her body buzzing with rapt attention. Palm curving against his jaw, she cradles his face, the feel of his skin against her own leaving her riddled with a desire she can liken to past experiences, but there's a voracity here too, something that gives this feeling claws of its own, that draws her hand down to curl tightly in the front of his already wrinkled shirt and wrinkle it further with all the relish of a person who isn't accustomed to taking.
The drinks behind that yearning long forgotten, she's breathless when he pulls away to look at her, lips wet and swollen, eyes bright as they study his face through her eyelashes. It doesn't last long. It doesn't have to. His face, his hair, the look in his eyes, she catches them all before he pulls her in to kiss again.
In a soft rustle of tulle, Aerith shifts until her knees are planted in the plush hotel carpet on either side of his thighs, her skirt bunched high on her hips, her grip reasserting itself in his shirt, pulling harder than before and encouraging him closer while her head tips back far enough to afford her the space to murmur– ] I'm taking, not you.