【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-Star Resort and Casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
Due to unprecedented high demand we are temporarily unable to check you in to your reserved room. We apologize for the inconvenience. We have arranged for a temporary room while we work on processing your reservation as quickly as possible. We appreciate your understanding.
As a special wedding gift from us, we have arranged for you and your new spouse to stay in one of our junior penthouses while you wait. Congratulations on your new marriage. We are so pleased you have chosen our resort for your honeymoon.
You will be notified as soon as your official reservation has been processed. Your comfort and happiness are our utmost priority. We hope you enjoy the provided amenities and lose yourself in marital bliss. 】
EVENS
EVENS: NEW CHARACTERS
Music plays. Instrumental, the tune gentle enough not to disturb peaceful rest. The sudden insistent beep of the Watch is a cutting cacophony across an otherwise sweet lullaby. Upon opening their eyes, new arrivals will quickly discover that something is wrong. The quilt snug across their body is weighty. Crystals glint in a weave of embroidery and cotton shimmers with threads of silver. Dozens of decorative pillows surround the bed. The gauzy curtains of the canopied bed are drawn, obscuring the rest of the room.
Extravagant for a kidnapping. Too extravagent. What’s more, these new guests will find something even stranger than this new diamond-studded suite tucked into bed beside them. Someone else. Who are they, what are they wearing? What happened last night?!
Guests are encouraged to explore the resort from here! There are paper maps available for those who would like and staff are happy to recommend locations if they have any preferences. Enjoy your honeymoon, you lovebirds!
ODDS
ODDS: SPECIAL RE-ARRIVAL
Never trust a hallway in the Golden peacock.
Cross the wrong threshold and time begins to slow. A short hallway becomes long, sheds its doors, only leading to turns without end. Guests too eager to explore the resort have gotten lost before. For how long always varies, dependent upon capriciousness of the resort. Hours? Yes. Years? Yes. Every guest caught in the winding hallways has reported the same thing: time is different there and too difficult to discern.
Some wayward guests have been caught in the endless hallways since the FIRST TDM. Weeks pass before a single doorway appears in the distance. It creaks upon opening before everything goes topsy-turvy. These guests have been let out of a trap door in the depths of Crane's Respite.
All water corridors will eventually lead back to the populated areas of Crane's Respite. The waters are warm, the scent of bath salts returns, and staff are wild with joy at finally finding all of you. They have been beside themselves searching ever since you vanished!
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Because we love all of the new characters premiering on this TDM, we kindly request that our Evens prompt be top level exclusive for new characters. Current characters are encouraged to tag in to these prompts with the caveat that they’ve been picked up from their assigned suite (or wherever else they were before) and dumped into the new arrival’s bed. We would like for new characters to have this prompt unique to their top level comments!
▶ Players are welcome to have their current character riff off of these prompts in the log community with the exclusion of the new arrival element. This request is just for TDM top levels.
▶ Current characters and new characters are both welcome to freely mess around with the Odds prompt with the exclusion of the arrival element. For new characters, players may participate with the idea that their character is exploring Crane’s Respite after their unique arrival in the Evens prompt. The Odds arrival element may also be utilized by current player characters who may have been on an unofficial hiatus in January and did not tag as much as they would have liked, to explain any long IC absence.
▶ Octopi may be killed. If a character decides to eat one of the octopi they may find themselves taking on some of its traits. Which traits are up to player discretion.
ELEVATORS
ELEVATORS
The house has recently ordered a full changeout of art in all high traffic areas. The elevators in particular have received special attention with many different famous artworks and portraits studded to the walls for guests to admire. These artworks are treasures of the modern world that one would typically see behind glass at a museum. Guests may even find works from their own world hanging in the elevators. Even famous works that maybe have been lost to time. So this is where they ended up. Is that Vermeer's The Concert?
Guests may find their elevator suddenly stopping without warning. The portraits on the wall stir, curiously studying them, but there are three main portraits calling the shots. The portrait that controls that particular elevator will make their demands known with the threat that, if they are not obeyed, you will be trapped forever.
Elevators will function after the portrait's demands are met. Guests that hold out and refuse may find themselves trapped upwards of twelve hours. Guests with the ability to do so may crawl out of the top emergency door, free to go wherever they want from there.
GREAT TIT!
GREAT TIT!
Great Tit! is the Golden Peacock’s popular dessert bar and cafe. With its bright pops of color and whimsical treats, guests simply can’t resist stopping in for a butt shaped cookie and hazelnut coffee. After catching wind that the resort has decided to celebrate a dessert shop's most lucrative holiday, Great Tit! is ready to impress the masses. Advertisements for limited edition drinks and desserts rain the main lobby; one can’t go three steps without slipping on a neon pink coupon for 10 percent off nipple buns. Guests that decide to pass by the cafe will find themselves assaulted with confetti cannons and eager employees ushering them inside.
Guests will find a temporary communal shower room upon exiting Great Tit! where they can wash off after a fun day of rolling around in sugar. All guests will be gifted a tee branded with a, CHOCOLATE IS MY LOVER logo.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ This portraits prompt has been triggered by several characters expressing interest in and investigating the lore of the resort paintings. This is just dipping a beginning toe in, but congrats to all for poking around!
▶ Portraits in the elevator should not be destroyed, purely for continuity’s sake. If a character would go far enough to attack one of the portraits, the portrait will slap them back with ghostly power.
▶ Characters may also figure other ways out of the elevator if they have specific abilities to do so. While the portraits can control the elevators, they cannot control your character(s). Any destruction to the elevator itself is liable to result in a rush of security dragging the culprit(s) away to the Iron Net.
▶ Great Tit! is running a massive sale! Even characters who are on the broke end of the spectrum will be able to afford to join in on the fun and indulge in sugar at these prices.
▶ Players are encouraged to make up any other elements for the Hall of Chocolate. If it’s a dessert and edible, it’s there. Enjoy your sugar coma!
▶ While the chocolate boxes are ICly limited due to Alessandro’s skills as a chocolatier, this is only an IC mechanic. There is no OOC limitation on this prompt as far as chocolate rarity goes.
THE NEST
ALICE AND THE PARROTS
Fashion boutiques are a dime a dozen in the Nest. The shopping hub is massive, lined with stores all trying to aggressively appeal to guests. A challenge in itself — but the guests of the Golden Peacock are no ordinary people. Used to being pampered and fed excitement, if these boutiques don’t bust their bottoms to appeal to the fickle nature of their patrons, they won’t be in business for much longer! One particular boutique, Alice and the Parrots, is riding winds of romantic thrill and churning out a couple of brand new fashion lines sure to draw in loads of chips.
Guests are welcome to try on clothes in Alice and the Parrots' dressing rooms. These dressing rooms are small and can only accommodate two people sharing at a time. Such is the life of a small boutique store. Sharing is no big deal, right? And there’s no way you can buy clothing this expensive without giving it a test first.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Players are encouraged to make up whatever cute outfits they would like for this prompt.
▶ Wedding clothes do not have to be cute and frilly; this section accommodates tastes of everyone.
▶ Alice and the Parrots is more expensive than Love Dove. Their clothing quality is excellent but their price tags are high. Staff may watch low ranks extra diligently to cut off any stealing. Thieves will be chased by NPC security! Anyone caught gets a day in the Iron Net.
CASINO CHAPEL
CASINO FLOOR
A Pop up Chapel has appeared in the Phoenix Casino. Guests are delighting in playing out weddings and pretending to get married — and a few guests are even tying the knot for real. They aren't worried about the sanctity of marriage; they can divorce tomorrow if they get bored of each other. And everyone knows that getting married doesn't mean you can't fuck whoever you want!
Since the resort isn't keeping track of how many marriages a guest has, all guests are encouraged to marry as many people as they would like. The more the merrier!
Wild wedding events will continue all throughout the month of February, until the guests find it's gotten stale. A divorce rush will round out the fun at the end of the month.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Weddings are not legally binding. Birdvis is not registered as a real officiant, but he does have an excellent beak and pompadour.
▶ Prizes from easy mode slot machines are automatic and do not require mod thumbs up to claim.
▶ Chip prize from difficult mode slot machines is automatic. The special prize is 5 reward points to add to your bank on rewards. Players who wish to claim the special prize should link the finished thread (the kink in question has been completed) under their rewards header with the header, Wedding Slot Machine. If you do any combination of 6/6 (finger hand lol) we ask you somehow make this sexy or involve a climax in order to claim the points.
BLANKET CW: Aphrodisiac; Compulsion; Costumes; Dubcon; Entrapment; Foodplay; Gambling; Lingerie; Matrimony; Tentacles; NSFW Images and Language; NTR; Nudity; Roleplay; Sacrilegious Themes
▶ All new characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. The house is still observing and deciding. As rank and suits are assigned upon acceptance your new character's suit will not manifest until they are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's February event.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Please make sure to review the arrival prompt notes! Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are priority and receive attention!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with the prompts on this TDM please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort.
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread anyway!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Thank you for spending Valentine's Day with us! You're our sweetheart this year. 💕
[The boxes of so-called "wedding gifts" prove to be — well. Later, once he's taken the measure of this resort a little more thoroughly, they won't come as any sort of surprise in retrospect; as it is in the here and now, pawing through the boxes turns up an assortment of lingerie that's presumably (hopefully) intended for Aerith's consumption, a handful of brightly-colored sex toys that he doesn't even deign to take out of the boxes before discarding them, and — aha. Black label scotch, bound up in a red ribbon, for the discerning husband already wishing for a divorce.
She keeps calling him by name, though, and it's...strange. Few people do; it's usually boss or sir or mister vice-president (well, president, now), and when he does hear it it's usually his full name, like a trademark, like a brand. People call him Rufus when they're talking about him, not to him. When was the last time someone...
Family, he thinks, right as that wave of terrible sadness washes over him. It's stretching the very bounds of the joke, to pretend that she's entitled to it because of this sham of a predicament they're in. Somehow, he doubts she'd stop even if he told her to, and he's not about to subject himself to having to explain why he might want her to.]
I can't claim to know all the details. Certainly not with the clarity you do.
[He thinks about getting up from the floor, then decides to fuck it and just leans up against the foot of the bed instead — his clothes are a disaster anyway, and they're a little past caring about appearances at this point — unsealing the scotch and just drinking straight out of the bottle, in lieu of bothering with finding another glass.
It's good alcohol. Even just the first drink of it sends a pleasant heat blossoming in his stomach, a light buzzing of the nerves that makes the room feel comfortably warm.]
I know enough to be aware that we ought to be talking about reparations, rather than wedding gifts.
[ If she sat and thought about it, Aerith would assume it was the champagne to blame for all these thin threads of emotion that have worked their way into the fabric of her own feelings, but her head's too full for that level of observation, still reeling from the brief mention of her mother's name, nevermind the situation as a whole.
Once her glass has been refilled, she pauses and looks in Rufus's direction, watching him rummaging through the wedding gifts left for them before landing on the bottle of scotch in his hands. Deciding to take the open champagne she's been working on with her back into the bedroom area of the suite, along with a platter of assorted snacks, she settles on the floor across from him, putting the tray off to one side before going back to nursing her drink. ]
Reparations? I already told you - I want parks in Midgar!
[ The bubbly does its job of softening the sharper edges of this interaction, aiding her efforts to keep things from boiling over into shouted accusation territory - or anything that might take them over the line into hostility, and make what's already a bad situation by Aerith's estimate a lot worse. ]
Unless you think I'm the one that owes you? [ She sounds playful enough when she asks, lips curved in that pleased smile she wears almost as a default, but - there's just the slightest touch of warning to it too, and paired with that a persistent press of wariness, like she's aware that most of the answers she can imagine Rufus giving her to that question would be ones she doesn't want to get, but she's gone ahead and asked anyway - stirring the pot without a second thought, bolstered by her own bravado and the warmth budding up from the champagne that's already working tirelessly to erode her guard. ]
hold on i thought you were playing aerith not vincent
[What a pair they make. Disastrous. There's perfectly good furniture around and it would all be wildly more comfortable than the floor, to say nothing of the fact that it'd be more appropriate and more civilized, and yet here they are, sprawled like a pair of careless vagabonds simply coming to rest wherever they fall and calling it good enough. His father would hate it, and the thought makes a flash of dark satisfaction course through his blood in tandem with the heady buzz of the scotch.]
Nothing grows in Midgar, except behind glass.
[That's what plants look like, after all — tidy ferns with waxy leaves kept in tasteful installations around the corporate offices. Orderly and neat and strictly controlled, just like everything else.
He lowers the bottle slowly, making no secret of how he's looking at her from over the neck of it, the lip still slightly damp from where his mouth had pressed.]
I'm asking you what you think it's worth. What you deserve in exchange for what was done to you. Is that really the value you'd put on it — some benches and walking paths for general consumption?
[ She sounds somehow gentle and proud simultaneously for imparting that knowledge, though the thought isn't without a twinge of sadness. Leaving Midgar had been a big step, one that left her unsure of when she'd see her garden again, but now - Aerith doesn't know if she ever will. ]
If that's what you're asking, then, I don't know. [ The alcohol makes the motion almost a little too fluid when she tips her head to the side, as though she were weighing out an answer before finally deciding on a neutral shrug. ] It wasn't just done to me. [ A pause, a sigh, one more toe over the line– ] Is that what you're taking now?
[ That old pain hasn't gone anywhere, and it flares a little from being referenced, enough that Aerith looks down at the drink in her hand with renewed determination, finishing her second glass before pulling the bottle of champagne closer. If he's allowed to drink straight from the bottle, she definitely is.
The way she watches him has been consistently curious, but, now that they're both settled here on the floor, there's something else lingering in the weight of her stare - not warmth precisely, but, interest - like she's on the precipice of seeing him in a new light, but that light hasn't quite decided what it's going to be.
He has a gorgeous mouth, she'll give him that much. ]
[It's difficult to pin down which piece of information is more arresting — the question of just what she's envisioning when she rebuts his assertion of a lack of greenery, or the fact that she claims not to know what would begin to make up for the ways she was wronged. Neither one seems to fit with his conception of Midgar, the former in a physical sense and the latter in a philosophical one. How does one endure being Shinra property without dreaming of all the ways one intends to be compensated for the experience someday? What even kept her going, if not the ambitious thirst for how it would someday all be different?]
I don't like unbalanced ledgers. [And then, after another drink:] Why can't you take this seriously?
[It's an odd thing to say — definitely a remark he would've known better than to let escape if he weren't preoccupied with the hit of the alcohol on his back palate and the fact that it's definitely warmer in the room now than it'd been even just minutes ago, not unpleasantly so but disarmingly so. He thinks about how her eyes are astonishingly green, and how he doesn't usually bother to notice the color of someone's eyes unless he's looking for a mako glow.]
I don't care about my father's bullshit. His so-called Promised Land. We're nothing alike.
[They are, at times, quite a bit alike, but it feels particularly important at this point to maintain the contrary.]
Doesn't mean I won't settle his debts. It's mine now. My Shinra. My responsibility.
[ Compassion and Rufus Shinra are two concepts that Aerith was comfortable never linking together in her mind, but the longer she sits here like this, studying the person behind the weight of his own name, the harder it becomes not to. She'll never see his side of things or grant him so much as a centimeter of grace when it comes to how wrong everything the company's been left is, but she thinks she's starting to see the person underneath. It's slight, but it's there, just a human being caught up in somebody else's ambition and left to pick up the pieces and figure out where they all fit now.
She doesn't want to get it - but she does.
Smirking after her seriousness is questioned, Aerith reasserts her hold on her champagne and scoots closer, encroaching into Rufus's space so that she can sit beside him and lean back against the foot of the bed as well. ] How do you know I'm not being serious? Maybe I can't count that high. [ Pausing, Aerith takes a long drink from her bottle before adding– ] Maybe that's why I had to marry a businessman.
[ It's strange that he can't imagine her not being able to present him with a detailed list of demands when it isn't just her he'd need to set things right with. Dismantling the reactors would be a drop in the bucket if she made a sincere effort to tally it all. Her mother, hell, her father, the Planet itself. There's no number big enough, no list long enough, and at heart, Aerith isn't a creature of retribution anyway.
Better to just resolve to be better, better to keep looking ahead, not back.
The weight of the conversation and the warmth of the room sit together, pairing oddly with how aware she's becoming of her clothing against her skin, making her shift further into his space, however unconsciously until her shoulder bumps his arm and she remembers herself enough to stop. ]
Can't you think of anything you couldn't put a price tag on?
[It's strange how that, of all things, makes him laugh — not a particularly upbeat sound, but not an edged one either. It's almost like the bark of it is the byproduct of some compressed emotion in him finally reaching critical mass and rattling its way up his throat to escape, the first burst of it fracturing the rest of his best efforts to suppress it as another and another begin to wrest free.
Hell, she makes a valid point, doesn't she? Maybe I can't count that high. But someone is going to have to. And there's something about the magnitude of finally grasping the rewards of the ambition he's harbored for years that he still hasn't fully processed yet — the difference between the old man's death as a goal to be accomplished and the old man's death as a thing that happened, has happened, with all the ramifications and ripple effects that can only naturally extend from it.
He'd barely even had the chance to rest on his laurels, much less turn his thoughts to any sort of meaningful consideration of now what, before he'd been evidently kidnapped again, thrown into some mysterious suite with no memory of how or why Aerith has been shoved into bed with him, and what is he doing about it? Sitting on the floor in a rumpled tuxedo and drinking.
He doesn't even know why it's funny. It's all just so absurd. Barely even a breath to assess all the billions of things to consider under the new regime of Shinra, and he's dragged off to have another uncontemplated dozen heaped on him in addition.]
You should have married an accountant. The ones businessmen hire to do it for them.
[Having her next to him feels equal parts magnetic and ill-advised. He thinks he should probably mind it, the familiarity if not the proximity, but even the accidental bits of contact when she settles in feel strangely electric, like his skin has gone hypersensitive without him really noticing. It's dangerous that he has to turn his head to look at her instead of just lifting his chin to glare across the way; there's something inherently conspiratorial about being next to someone instead of across from them, and she's close enough now that when her hair moves it casts a faint scent into the air that at length he identifies as floral.
Her question leaves him thoughtful, though, and when he looks at her it's sidelong, not so much turning his head as tilting it and letting his eyes drift to the side, which inadvertently keeps his face in profile with a few errant strands of hair cascading artfully against his cheek.]
...Winning. Wealth can facilitate it, but it can't buy it.
[Sage advice. His mouth is still a little wet from the residual scotch.]
Maybe you deserve to win something. Choose something no one wanted you to have, and take it anyway.
[ That's not a noise he makes often. She'd stake gil on it.
That doesn't mean Aerith can't appreciate getting a laugh out of Rufus, even if it's probably because they're both leaving sobriety further and further behind the longer they sit here drinking like this - she enjoys that she's wrenched such a rusty, almost pressurized noise out of her alleged husband.
While Rufus might be content to keep her in his periphery, Aerith isn't the kind of person to stare in half-measures. She likes to get a good look at things, and while this should be the exception, she turns towards him without thinking, watching his hair move while he speaks, and the statuesque angles of his profile, her eyes occasionally darting to his visible one, catching him looking here and there. It doesn't help that whatever dawning awareness that's keeping her so cognizant of the brush of her skirt against her thighs, almost has an - echo(??) to it, like she's feeling what she feels, and then experiencing it a second time as well.
It's a disjointed situation, but it's quiet enough to ignore for the most part, especially when he's so focused on thoughts of victory and retribution, of winning.
That's his thing, not hers, so when he turns the concept around on her, telling her she deserves to win too, Aerith laughs in surprise, a sweet and genuine sound tempered by the bubbly and whatever's been added to it. ]
Okay, deal– [ Letting go of her champagne Aerith reaches across her chest, sticking a hand out to shake. ] When we get home, you let me back in the Shinra building, and I'll kick Hojo in the balls. [ Adding, after a determined nod. ] Twice. [ Once for her, once for her mother. Tipsy and warm as she is, the idea sounds splendid. ]
[There's a long moment, then, when he just kind of looks at her, like he's processing the whole of what just unfolded here — from the laugh to the whim to the outstretched hand, the way he can't quite tell whether she's just humoring him as she'd been before or if she's actually getting on board with the idea of doing something raw and significant and personal.
Sometimes, the language of love is threats of third-party violence.]
That's more like it.
[He sets the scotch aside before taking her hand, unsurprised to find the palm hot and a little tacky from where it's been pressed against her glass and the bottle, but mostly just caught up on how easily the whole of his closes over hers. Holding her hand isn't like holding a gun. Her lack of grip would get her laughed out of a boardroom.
It's annoying to crane his neck to look at her, he thinks idly. It was less complicated when she was on the other side of the room, oriented more in front of him, so he could sit and drink and not have to fuss with finding a sideways angle that doesn't make him want to lean his head back and prop it on the bed like some sort of lackadaisical drunk. It's doubly so because she's already moved so she can stare openly at him if she wants, and that's just altogether unbalanced in a way he decides without really thinking much about it that he dislikes.]
Now stop staring at me.
[— he says, and drops her hand to grab her by the middle instead, hauling her over and atop his legs so that she's settled about halfway between his thigh and his knee. It's a bad idea he'll regret in about thirty seconds when her weight starts bearing down on the bone, but that's a problem to be dealt with thirty seconds from now, because at present it actually feels like a phenomenal idea — getting his hands on her, moving her like it's nothing, watching his own rumpled trousers get swallowed up in pink tulle.
He's supposed to take his hands off her, probably, when he's finished. Except that seems like a particularly stupid idea all of a sudden, and for the life of him he can't quite produce an explanation for why.]
[ Rufus gets at least a short break from all the intent looking she's doing after his hand engulfs hers once they shake. It draws her eye, leaving her debating whether or not his hand feels like she thought it would, her palm soft save for the splay of gardener's callouses, and his, strong like a gunman's but never used for the things she's used her hands for, soft in the places she isn't, and perhaps vice-versa.
But why does it matter? Why do any of these cozy little juxtapositions she finds under every stone she overturns matter?
They don't, they shouldn't, and she knows that. Unfortunately, there's very little time between her becoming conscious of that and Rufus telling her to stop staring at him before he drops her hand in favor of grabbing her waist and pulling her into his lap. She stiffens in surprise as she's pulled along, the drinks in her system working to mute her reactions, pushing the impulse to pull away far out of her reach, leaving her wide-eyed as he settles her in her new seat, giving her a much more intimate view when she looks up at him. ]
You stop staring first! [ There's a paltry amount of reproach in the way she tries to turn this back around on him. He's so close, and her heart is beating hard enough that Aerith is sure he can tell. Her fingers lift, moving to brush away a few of the strands of hair obscuring part of his face, ardent in the way she searches his face from this angle. He could be a painting or a statue, not that it matters, not that there's any way for her to explain away how her eyes follow the slight bow of his lips, or the twinge of want that stems from the sight. ]
At least all the new company banners will look a lot better. [ That wasn't something she intended to say out loud - it just happened, much like the way she pulls her hand away from his hair only to trace the tip of her finger over his bottom lip. ]
[He laughs again, a little less ragged this time, because the fact of the matter is there's something about Aerith's sweet-faced defiance that's just...satisfying. She masks well and gives as good as she gets, neither falling for his bait nor outright disregarding it; just look at her now, how even when she's startled she still finds a retort, refusing to let herself be unbalanced even when he's quite literally dragged her off her figurative and literal feet.
She's even a little better at keeping her composure than he is, although that's hardly an even playing field when she's actively running her fingers over his face, and he's only holding onto her for the sake of keeping her balanced. If he were raking his fingers through her hair, she'd probably be skittish and uncertain, herself. The fact that every bit of his focus seems to narrow down to the brush of her fingertips where they smooth away the errant locks of his hair is...it's just to be expected. It's not that the touch is unusual, or compelling.
It's funny how he's never really thought about how attractive a prospect it can be to have a girl in his lap. There's really no reason why he should have been dwelling on it anytime before now, but from behind the haze of simmering heat that seems to have overtaken his blood, it seems strange that he's never considered it before when it's as satisfying as this.
He doesn't stop staring, because he's not staring, just looking. Her eyes are so green it's hard to look away, much less to want to look away to begin with.]
Why's that?
[The banners, he means. It's not so much that he actually cares about the answer. Mostly he's just got an intriguing view of her mouth, from this vantage, and the thought of watching it move is enticing.
But then her hand leaves his hair, and her finger wanders down his face and ends up running along the length of his mouth, and he thinks about telling her to stop that too but it's altogether just easier to let his lips part a little and catch her fingertip between his teeth instead, the pressure light and more of a cautionary gesture than a bite.]
i can't tell if this is a thread or a knife fight anymore...
[ There's no defense or explanation Aerith could give for any of this, not for lingering in his lap instead of immediately scrambling away, nor for how her fingertips almost seem to be left buzzing in all the places they've touched his skin. He holds her attention in a way he has no business being able to do, but all the reasons why that is grow further away as the warmth of the room rises, sharpening her senses, making it so when his lips part and his teeth catch her finger it's shocking but - not in the way she expects it to be.
Nothing about this is what she expected it to be. Champagne can smooth the sharper edges of that thorny truth, but Aerith can't deny that she feels better than she ever thought she could, or would, locked in a surreal game of tit-for-tat with Rufus Shinra. While on his lap. And touching his face. ]
You don't get to keep that, you know.
[ The effort Aerith makes to try and sound reproachful borders on valiant, but there's too much softness in the way she speaks for it to land, or even present itself at all as the three fingers she still has free drum gently on his jawline with feigned impatience before she slips free of his hold, all the snide remarks she could have made about not putting things from the slums in his mouth, or not damaging the lab specimens thought of and forgotten, never at risk of being said.
His eyes follow her lips, and she watches him while he does it, wanting him to look but unable to place why - not that having a motive feels as significant as how warm and solid he feels against her.
Even when she's sober, Aerith is the sort who leans into a snap decision, often without planning it through - sometimes to good results. Were she able to spare a thought for the situation, there wouldn't be that many good results that could come from this - keeping close to him, talking instead of seething with righteous rage - from letting him get so close.
Aerith's hands settle on his cheeks as her eyes narrow, giving his face another once over before she shifts closer and tips her chin up, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead before righting herself again, more curious about his reaction than she ought to be. ]
[All the lies and excuses he'd told himself about the way she'd touched his hair evaporate in an instant when she leans into him and kisses his forehead instead, and then draws back and blinks at him with those big green eyes like she knows she did something warranting a flinch and she's already waiting to see how it will look on him.
What's strange, he finds silently, is that his reaction is a mixture of aching nostalgia and a ragged burn that he decides to define as annoyance. Gentleness always feels like a trap waiting to spring, a soft assault against his better instincts. No one has ever been gentle with him a day in his life and he doesn't want them to be. A single fractional nod from his father always felt so much better than the stifling confines of his mother's arms.
(The late Mrs. Shinra, he thinks darkly. Company assets, he thinks coldly.)
The hands on her waist shift just slightly, and only after she draws back; with just two fingers, he pushes up the hem of her tuxedo t-shirt far enough to slip them under and runs the tips back and forth in shallow lines against her side. Touching, and yet never out of proportion to what she's already done to him herself. Watching her, like she's watching him.
(He and I are nothing alike, he thinks fiercely.)]
Don't I? I took it.
[There's worlds of significance wrapped up in that quiet remark. Chief among them is this: you can't take something that's already yours to begin with. What about dis-asseting me, she'd insisted, and that's a curious enough prospect that he's willing to play it out and see what comes of it. What if all the trappings of possession, the history, the circumstances, the fucking wedding rings — what if none of it meant anything, what if it all burned to the ground and they grew it back up as a park in its place. What then, if he wasn't holding her by law or by right but because she let him?
She can't count high enough to number all of Shinra's sins, so she married someone who could do it for her. And she doesn't know how to win by taking something nobody gave her.
Lucky she married an expert — one patient enough to bide his time until she susses it out on her own.]
If you see something you want, why aren't you taking it?
[ That echo of emotion roils on, seething both beside and around her own, building like storm clouds all but bursting with lightning and hail - the most destructive parts of the storm. And he is a force for destruction, isn't he? Someone who never knew the benefit of a little kiss on the forehead, who deals in plans so broad and sweeping the finer, softer things - the sunlight through the window, the ferns in the Shinra lobby when somebody remembers to mist them regularly and they get fluffy and healthy, things that don't reshape the world in the way that he does. He might always miss them.
And that isn't her problem. There's no version of the world (so far?) where it would be, just like there's no level of the universe where this - his hand on her skin, her heart forgetting how to beat correctly because of it, the slope of his nose etching its way insidiously into her memory - ought to be.
Aerith believes in things like compassion, convinced that there's beauty in everything and everyone. She's spent years figuring out the right angle to look at the Turks tailing her from, learning to see what made them people, what notes to play to get them to slip up and show her themselves. Her version of the reparations Rufus seems so adamant she takes - things she should not want from him as well, not now, not after everything that's happened. Even if she believes she can almost see him, does she have a reason for looking beyond that right now that amounts to something more than she wants to?
Why aren't you taking it? Because I don't know what it is yet. Aerith thinks immediately, her smile tightening in barely suppressed amusement.
She could laugh at him and tell him she doesn't want anything, that he's hard and cold and she's made out of things that are antithetical to that, maybe even offensive to his brutal practicalities, that it doesn't mean anything to her to share the weight of the words company asset.
Rufus Shinra is someone she could lie to without a problem.
Instead, her arms stretch, draping over his shoulders and the top of the bed behind him as she slowly shifts closer. Her eyes stay on his, the heat simmering through her by way of the champagne flaring, like it's pleased she's finally giving in, and it shows in her face, in the way she looks too long at his mouth again. ]
I don't think this will fix anything at all. [ The words are breathed sweet and conspiratorial against his lips, letting herself hover there for as long as she can until the demand of that keen, damnably exquisite awareness of him eats at the last of her restraint and she's kissing him like she's been waiting a hundred years for the chance. ]
Of course it doesn't fix anything, because the sort of world where all misfortunes are set to rights with a kiss is the stuff of fantasy and fairy tales, the ones people tell themselves when they're desperate to believe that it doesn't take determination and effort to surmount circumstances so broken. But what it does do is unlock a door, and one that he's been biding his time to see if she would open — the one where she moves first, the one where she throws her gauntlet, because whatever it is that might come of this now, she's as complicit in it as he is.
And that — means something. However nuanced, however hairsplitting, it means something that she kissed him first. That she came to him on her own, without being dragged or coerced or trading compliance for the sake of some benefit in return. It means something because he could have done any of those things without a moment's hesitation, if it suited him, and it suited him to do this instead.]
Of course not —
[— but something ignites when her mouth presses against his, like glowing embers abruptly fanned into a blaze by a timely breath of wind. And he's kissed enough people before to know that kissing isn't supposed to feel this intense, like every cell of his body is saturated with his desire to prolong it, but even the nagging feeling that something about this isn't quite right isn't enough to draw his thoughts away from the compulsion right in front of him.
Now his hands move with more purpose; the one that had been teasing just beneath the hem of her shirt pushes up beneath it with confidence, finding the ridge of her spine and following it upward while the other comes up to rake through her hair. It's a relief that she'd moved herself closer because it's easier to have her sat high on his thighs rather than pinning his legs at the knees; it feels better, too, when the beginnings of arousal start to stir and her weight is well-situated to afford him a little friction from it. He sweeps his tongue along her lower lip, wanting it messy and imperfect and raw because it's liberating to not have to think so much, to let the odd burning in his blood do the dictating for a little while.
When he does drag himself away, it's only long enough to look at her before he pulls her back down and starts the process of not fixing anything all over again.]
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.
[He doesn't voice his thoughts on that little declaration of hers, but unbeknownst to him the ring on his finger betrays it regardless: a fast surge of fierce approval that burns and fades like a brushfire. And maybe that's because in its own twisted way, there's a victory for him in this, too, though what it is he's won is really anyone's guess.
It doesn't matter. What matters is that there's a burn of heat in every place that their skin makes contact, all the way up her spine until his fingers find the ridge of a lace strap running horizontal across her back, and it's far from the easiest thing to manage by touch and one-handed but he pulls at the delicate hooks anyway, manipulating them loose one by one. What matters is that he can coil his fingers around and through the long kinking waves of her hair (had it been tied up, when she'd fled from his rooftop?) and hold it at the back of her neck, because he doesn't know how to hold anything without some level of possession inherent.
What matters is every kiss seems to last until a need for air or to seize the last word takes precedence, and this one is no exception, like they couldn't stay apart if they tried and quite frankly neither one of them is trying.]
Is that so?
[This provocation is starkly different than the others that came before it. Before, he's laid bait and floated implications, figuratively circling her the way a curious Darkstar might just for the sake of taking her measure. This one, by contrast, is a taunt — one he's willing to give because she's asserted herself first, because now it's been made clear that these are escalations in a game and not declarations of war.]
Even if you beg me to?
[It wasn't deliberate, the way the last of the fastenings come loose on her bra at just about the same time he throws that gauntlet of his own, but hell, he's always had a knack for good timing.]
[ It doesn't matter if he approves or doesn't, but she feels it all anyway, bolstering the satisfaction cording through her from having him like this, fueling whatever is brewing between them.
Aerith's hand fists tighter in the front of Rufus's shirt, an echo of the hold he keeps on her hair as it's gathered against the back of her neck, unwittingly meeting him measure for measure while her mouth claims his again and again between hastily drawn breaths.
The tension in the elastic around her rib loosens under his hand as he unfastens one hook and then the second, the shift of fabric against her breasts enough to stiffen her nipples and make her breath catch against his mouth, her hips angling down, letting him feel the heat between her thighs as she presses flush against the firming outline of his cock, egging them both on. Her tongue drags over the swell of his lower lip as her fingers unfasten his buttons, her smile warming her voice despite barely speaking above a whisper. ]
I bet you beg me before I beg you.
[ What had he called it? Something no one wanted her to have. Before today, did she want her to have this? Could she have even imagined being in a position where something like this had the potential to exist? These are questions she'll ask - along with a million others when she's back in her right mind, but right now, it all pales in comparison to how solid his chest feels against her hands once she undoes his shirt far enough to slip her hands through in search of skin. ]
[But damn if it doesn't feel good, the way new points of contact keep opening up between them, and new sensations continue to preoccupy his attention one after another. There's at least three layers still between them yet but there's such heat when she grinds down onto him, when she pulls his shirt open free and pushes her hands inside. There's no chance of getting her bra off entirely without separating enough to fuss about with her shirt, but loosening it makes enough space for him to get his hand on her, too, brought back around front to work up between the lace and the swell of her breast, feeling her up in much the same way that she's out to do to him.]
But take your best shot anyway.
[It's not enough, not enough, not enough. Later, when the fog lifts from his thoughts and he can consider it through an unclouded lens, he'll realize how unnatural that urgency really is, how spurred on by the effects of the resort and its questionable beverages. For now, though, there's little to contemplate beyond the way her fingers are skimming across his chest, making him suck his breath a little more sharply as he rolls into the touch and closes his eyes briefly against it.]
[ Beneath her hands, his skin his warm, disastrously so, his touch more engrossing than she can remember anyone else's ever being - and that should concern her a lot more than it does. She's too transfixed now, too interested in letting her hands follow the planes of his chest, touching him for the sake of it, because the way his breath catches feels almost as satisfying as being touched herself. The shouldn'ts fall away with each passing second, his hand slips between her loosened bra and her skin, curving over her breast, compelling her to arch into the touch like a cat finding a shaft of sunlight while her thighs press insistently against his hips, keeping him in place for her to grind against, the rising pitch of her urgency evident in every movement.
He tells her she'll lose and she laughs, soft and sweet, smothered between kisses and reflected in the playful lightness of her fingertips against his chest as they graze over his nipples in a wordless show of one-upmanship. ]
Could be. [ She won't lose, even if she drives herself to distraction all for the sake of doing the same to him, nevermind that she still hasn't figured out how to win either. Buoyed by the champagne, Aerith pulls back, affording them just enough space for her to pull her shirt off and push his off his shoulders, her eyes lingering on his face. ] But I doubt it.
[It's indicative of just how much the aphrodisiacs in the scotch have affected him, the fact that he can't quite keep a noise out of his throat when she moves away from him instead of into him; it's equal parts the loss of heat and an annoyance at the perception of being deprived of having her close, short and huffy and terse. He's not quite far gone enough to actively chase after her, though, or to try to pull her back into his arms when she backs off; if he sulks a little, well, maybe that's just a matter of interpretation.
It's consolation enough that he gets to look at her when she puts distance between them, though. The absurdity of the novelty t-shirt gives way to the softer elegance of her bared body, and it's hard to regret the exchange. There are no visible scars bitten into her skin where a shirt or top might hide them, and he's not entirely sure why that's even something he looked for to begin with.]
Only one way to find out.
[It's hard not to wonder about her, the real living girl behind all the references to the Ancient that turned up in internal memos and research reports and Tseng's carefully level voice. What makes her blush, makes her writhe, makes her scream? Has anyone ever sought those answers? Does she even know them, herself?
He wants to know, he thinks, and when her hands push his shirt off his shoulders, he catches them by the fingers before they can retreat, clasping each of her hands in his own. Ostensibly it's to keep her from getting any further in undressing him — maybe. Maybe that's what it is. That's what would make the most sense.
(She's pretty, he thinks, unbidden, and files it away as irrelevant.)
Using her hands like they're leverage, he tugs at her now that they're both bare from the waist up, curious to see how much better it feels to be pressed together when it's skin to heated skin.]
[ Never one for schadenfreude, she still finds herself delighting in his subtle sulk and the noise that comes alongside it. Being wanted by Rufus Shinra - it's enough to make a girl feel like a superweapon! Well, not exactly, and not that she's ever been especially good at being weaponized. Still, of all the new feelings she's contended with since waking up, there's an unmistakable sense of satisfaction that's quickly fed by the way he catches her hands to pull her flush against him. His words and the heat of his skin against hers, the sensitive peaks of her nipples pressing against his chest, the sensation heightened by the champagne to the point where it's her turn to try and suppress the sound that rises in her throat.
Aerith's eyes flash, still pleased with herself when she fixes her eyes on his face again, leaning into his face to press their foreheads together, staring him down, playful and challenging in equal measure. ]
You need to learn how to say please!
[ The passive hold she's kept on his hands tightens, and she pulls his arms behind her, leading them around her back until she's satisfied he'll take the lead and hold her like she wants him to. Her knees press against the floor as she straightens herself up against him, lifting herself off of his lap to feel more of his body as she pushes his hair back from his face, nails dragging light against his scalp before she pulls him into another kiss.
Later, she'll look back on this and wonder when her mind became a muddied mess of desire, when she stopped being able to string any thoughts beyond making good on that threat, and how it doesn't feel as surreal as it should, being wanted by Rufus Shinra. ]
[Were it not for the burn in his blood, the one that feels as though it will unravel him if it isn't satiated soon, he could almost be content just with this — just the way she feels when she's pulled flush against him, all the myriad points of contact of her touching him, of him touching her. It could be enough to just kiss her and run his fingers over her skin and listen to the noises she made, and there would be an odd satisfaction in that, just from the feeling of being close.
But right now, it's not enough, and the wanting spurs him on to more, more, more. More sounds, more kisses, more contact — more, until he's had his fill, and right now his appetite feels bottomless.]
Oh? No one's managed it yet.
[The taunting comes as easy as ever; what gives him pause, just for an instant, is the way she pulls the same trick on him that he's just used on her, and makes use of their still-clasped hands to guide his arms around her. By all rights, he should be triumphant about it — what could be a better expression of taking something she wants than to physically put his hands where she pleases? — but there's an intimacy to this specific gesture that catches him just a little off-guard. Pleasure is one thing, exploration is another, but this is...tenderness, of a sort, to want him to not just bring her close but to hold her there, and in a way it almost feels...
Should she want that, really? Should she want that from him?
It's only an instant's fleeting thought before it's too late to matter, because he gathers her up just in time for her to get her own hands in his hair, using them like a guide herself to lift his face up and kiss her again. It's attractive, to say the least — it always is, when his partner is willing to take some initiative — and with the little sliver of clarity that remains before his thoughts submerge in desire once more, he makes his hands draw light circles against the plane of her back, keeping them moving so she can't help but feel it, how she's getting what she wanted and chased after and claimed.]
[ The fingers in his hair press together, catching enough between them to tug while she arches into him, pressing him back against the foot of the bed while his fingers play over her back, keeping her flushed, the persistent heat steeping into every cell practically rocketing through her veins. Letting herself get surrounded like this should be off the table. His hands shouldn't be starting to feel familiar, much less welcome. The seconds of clarity she gets should be devoted to extracting herself from this situation, not finding more ways to egg him on and further entrench herself.
At least she hasn't lied to him. This won't fix anything, but that's not her problem right now.
Right now, Aerith's only concerns involve letting her tongue brush against Rufus's as she waits for the right moment when the hold she's guided him into loosens, allowing her to slip out of his arms, another twist in this game of push-pull. Walking the tricky edge of being pulled along by the need to feel more of him and the keen memory of the noise he made the last time she put space between them, Aerith's off his lap when the moment's right, out of his arms and back on her feet, her hands pushing her hair back past her shoulders as she peers over her shoulder at him. ]
You're going to sit right there and wait. [ Somehow, she still sounds like she's cheerfully delivering good news rather than torturing them both for the fun cause of trying to put him in his place. The corners of her eyes crease in amusement as she steps to the side, ignoring how her body aches in objection while her hands unfasten her skirt's zipper. Once it falls, Aerith steps out of it without breaking her sauntering stride, heading towards the pile of gifts, hands clasping idly behind her back while she looks over the assortment of still packaged toys, searching for something straightforward, with an easy learning curve. ]
If you just begged me now, you'd solve both of our problems, you know?
[ Just because she's making it up as she goes does not mean she's not going to hassle him like she's got it all figured out. Wanting nothing more than to spring her trap on him while trying to satiate the hunger needling through her, Aerith picks up a small vibrator and turns around, idly toying with the waistband of her panties as she closes in on him again. ] Now you're going to have to wait, and not be allowed to do anything until I tell you that you can.
[ She comes to a halt beside where he sits, bringing him nearly eye level with the dampness darkening the front of her panties. ] Well, maybe I can let you take these off, but that's it.
[It's a good play, and it gets her precisely what she's after; when Aerith slips free of his hold, he doesn't fight to keep her, but the suddenness of her departure drags a noise that's almost a growl free of his throat in its place. The feeling of loss is acute — she'd been warm and pliable and close and good, and now she's halfway across the room and there's really nothing stopping him from chasing her, save for the fact that he suspects that's exactly what she wants. It's a neat little trap she manufactures, all told: if he stays put, then it gives the appearance of doing as she'd told, but if he ignores it and goes after her, then he's playing into her hands.
The burn of irritation pairs deliciously with a sense of odd, approving interest. He doesn't like being played, but somehow he can appreciate that she's decided to try it at all.
Besides, there's one benefit to her getting up. She sheds that ridiculous skirt, which on the balance is a marked improvement. Her legs are as pretty as the rest of her, and she'd bade him wait but she never said anything about whether he was prohibited from looking or not.]
I'm supposed to solve your problems too? Shouldn't you — hh, be begging me, then?
[The hitch in his breath is subtle, but less so than he'd like. He'd written the toys off as pranks and novelties, when he'd been sifting through them before. He hadn't particularly thought —
Well. That's reason enough as any to make a surreptitious grab for the scotch and have another drink, while he still can.
By the time she comes back, he's shifted a little, mostly just from wanting to move his legs a bit while there's still an opportunity before she theoretically comes back to perch over them again; he's moved himself up into a more kneeling position that has him sitting back on his heels, upright enough that it's easier to move a bit when she approaches, and which renders his own arousal not quite so juttingly obvious.
She's wet. He did that.
Fuck.]
I see. So that's it, unless you tell me.
[One hand comes up to grasp her by the outside of her thigh, keeping her stationary and tethered; the other runs up the inside of her opposite leg, up and up and up until he finds the apex and its dampness, and runs two fingers along it.
He's only allowed to take them off? Well, she didn't say how long he had to accomplish it, or how efficient he had to be in going about it.]
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peacockstop2024-02-10 11:29 am
then prepare for death i guess!!!!!
She keeps calling him by name, though, and it's...strange. Few people do; it's usually boss or sir or mister vice-president (well, president, now), and when he does hear it it's usually his full name, like a trademark, like a brand. People call him Rufus when they're talking about him, not to him. When was the last time someone...
Family, he thinks, right as that wave of terrible sadness washes over him. It's stretching the very bounds of the joke, to pretend that she's entitled to it because of this sham of a predicament they're in. Somehow, he doubts she'd stop even if he told her to, and he's not about to subject himself to having to explain why he might want her to.]
I can't claim to know all the details. Certainly not with the clarity you do.
[He thinks about getting up from the floor, then decides to fuck it and just leans up against the foot of the bed instead — his clothes are a disaster anyway, and they're a little past caring about appearances at this point — unsealing the scotch and just drinking straight out of the bottle, in lieu of bothering with finding another glass.
It's good alcohol. Even just the first drink of it sends a pleasant heat blossoming in his stomach, a light buzzing of the nerves that makes the room feel comfortably warm.]
I know enough to be aware that we ought to be talking about reparations, rather than wedding gifts.
tags from my coffin ig
Once her glass has been refilled, she pauses and looks in Rufus's direction, watching him rummaging through the wedding gifts left for them before landing on the bottle of scotch in his hands. Deciding to take the open champagne she's been working on with her back into the bedroom area of the suite, along with a platter of assorted snacks, she settles on the floor across from him, putting the tray off to one side before going back to nursing her drink. ]
Reparations? I already told you - I want parks in Midgar!
[ The bubbly does its job of softening the sharper edges of this interaction, aiding her efforts to keep things from boiling over into shouted accusation territory - or anything that might take them over the line into hostility, and make what's already a bad situation by Aerith's estimate a lot worse. ]
Unless you think I'm the one that owes you? [ She sounds playful enough when she asks, lips curved in that pleased smile she wears almost as a default, but - there's just the slightest touch of warning to it too, and paired with that a persistent press of wariness, like she's aware that most of the answers she can imagine Rufus giving her to that question would be ones she doesn't want to get, but she's gone ahead and asked anyway - stirring the pot without a second thought, bolstered by her own bravado and the warmth budding up from the champagne that's already working tirelessly to erode her guard. ]
hold on i thought you were playing aerith not vincent
Nothing grows in Midgar, except behind glass.
[That's what plants look like, after all — tidy ferns with waxy leaves kept in tasteful installations around the corporate offices. Orderly and neat and strictly controlled, just like everything else.
He lowers the bottle slowly, making no secret of how he's looking at her from over the neck of it, the lip still slightly damp from where his mouth had pressed.]
I'm asking you what you think it's worth. What you deserve in exchange for what was done to you. Is that really the value you'd put on it — some benches and walking paths for general consumption?
oh don't worry. the coffin is very pink
[ She sounds somehow gentle and proud simultaneously for imparting that knowledge, though the thought isn't without a twinge of sadness. Leaving Midgar had been a big step, one that left her unsure of when she'd see her garden again, but now - Aerith doesn't know if she ever will. ]
If that's what you're asking, then, I don't know. [ The alcohol makes the motion almost a little too fluid when she tips her head to the side, as though she were weighing out an answer before finally deciding on a neutral shrug. ] It wasn't just done to me. [ A pause, a sigh, one more toe over the line– ] Is that what you're taking now?
[ That old pain hasn't gone anywhere, and it flares a little from being referenced, enough that Aerith looks down at the drink in her hand with renewed determination, finishing her second glass before pulling the bottle of champagne closer. If he's allowed to drink straight from the bottle, she definitely is.
The way she watches him has been consistently curious, but, now that they're both settled here on the floor, there's something else lingering in the weight of her stare - not warmth precisely, but, interest - like she's on the precipice of seeing him in a new light, but that light hasn't quite decided what it's going to be.
He has a gorgeous mouth, she'll give him that much. ]
no subject
I don't like unbalanced ledgers. [And then, after another drink:] Why can't you take this seriously?
[It's an odd thing to say — definitely a remark he would've known better than to let escape if he weren't preoccupied with the hit of the alcohol on his back palate and the fact that it's definitely warmer in the room now than it'd been even just minutes ago, not unpleasantly so but disarmingly so. He thinks about how her eyes are astonishingly green, and how he doesn't usually bother to notice the color of someone's eyes unless he's looking for a mako glow.]
I don't care about my father's bullshit. His so-called Promised Land. We're nothing alike.
[They are, at times, quite a bit alike, but it feels particularly important at this point to maintain the contrary.]
Doesn't mean I won't settle his debts. It's mine now. My Shinra. My responsibility.
no subject
She doesn't want to get it - but she does.
Smirking after her seriousness is questioned, Aerith reasserts her hold on her champagne and scoots closer, encroaching into Rufus's space so that she can sit beside him and lean back against the foot of the bed as well. ] How do you know I'm not being serious? Maybe I can't count that high. [ Pausing, Aerith takes a long drink from her bottle before adding– ] Maybe that's why I had to marry a businessman.
[ It's strange that he can't imagine her not being able to present him with a detailed list of demands when it isn't just her he'd need to set things right with. Dismantling the reactors would be a drop in the bucket if she made a sincere effort to tally it all. Her mother, hell, her father, the Planet itself. There's no number big enough, no list long enough, and at heart, Aerith isn't a creature of retribution anyway.
Better to just resolve to be better, better to keep looking ahead, not back.
The weight of the conversation and the warmth of the room sit together, pairing oddly with how aware she's becoming of her clothing against her skin, making her shift further into his space, however unconsciously until her shoulder bumps his arm and she remembers herself enough to stop. ]
Can't you think of anything you couldn't put a price tag on?
no subject
Hell, she makes a valid point, doesn't she? Maybe I can't count that high. But someone is going to have to. And there's something about the magnitude of finally grasping the rewards of the ambition he's harbored for years that he still hasn't fully processed yet — the difference between the old man's death as a goal to be accomplished and the old man's death as a thing that happened, has happened, with all the ramifications and ripple effects that can only naturally extend from it.
He'd barely even had the chance to rest on his laurels, much less turn his thoughts to any sort of meaningful consideration of now what, before he'd been evidently kidnapped again, thrown into some mysterious suite with no memory of how or why Aerith has been shoved into bed with him, and what is he doing about it? Sitting on the floor in a rumpled tuxedo and drinking.
He doesn't even know why it's funny. It's all just so absurd. Barely even a breath to assess all the billions of things to consider under the new regime of Shinra, and he's dragged off to have another uncontemplated dozen heaped on him in addition.]
You should have married an accountant. The ones businessmen hire to do it for them.
[Having her next to him feels equal parts magnetic and ill-advised. He thinks he should probably mind it, the familiarity if not the proximity, but even the accidental bits of contact when she settles in feel strangely electric, like his skin has gone hypersensitive without him really noticing. It's dangerous that he has to turn his head to look at her instead of just lifting his chin to glare across the way; there's something inherently conspiratorial about being next to someone instead of across from them, and she's close enough now that when her hair moves it casts a faint scent into the air that at length he identifies as floral.
Her question leaves him thoughtful, though, and when he looks at her it's sidelong, not so much turning his head as tilting it and letting his eyes drift to the side, which inadvertently keeps his face in profile with a few errant strands of hair cascading artfully against his cheek.]
...Winning. Wealth can facilitate it, but it can't buy it.
[Sage advice. His mouth is still a little wet from the residual scotch.]
Maybe you deserve to win something. Choose something no one wanted you to have, and take it anyway.
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That doesn't mean Aerith can't appreciate getting a laugh out of Rufus, even if it's probably because they're both leaving sobriety further and further behind the longer they sit here drinking like this - she enjoys that she's wrenched such a rusty, almost pressurized noise out of her alleged husband.
While Rufus might be content to keep her in his periphery, Aerith isn't the kind of person to stare in half-measures. She likes to get a good look at things, and while this should be the exception, she turns towards him without thinking, watching his hair move while he speaks, and the statuesque angles of his profile, her eyes occasionally darting to his visible one, catching him looking here and there. It doesn't help that whatever dawning awareness that's keeping her so cognizant of the brush of her skirt against her thighs, almost has an - echo(??) to it, like she's feeling what she feels, and then experiencing it a second time as well.
It's a disjointed situation, but it's quiet enough to ignore for the most part, especially when he's so focused on thoughts of victory and retribution, of winning.
That's his thing, not hers, so when he turns the concept around on her, telling her she deserves to win too, Aerith laughs in surprise, a sweet and genuine sound tempered by the bubbly and whatever's been added to it. ]
Okay, deal– [ Letting go of her champagne Aerith reaches across her chest, sticking a hand out to shake. ] When we get home, you let me back in the Shinra building, and I'll kick Hojo in the balls. [ Adding, after a determined nod. ] Twice. [ Once for her, once for her mother. Tipsy and warm as she is, the idea sounds splendid. ]
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Sometimes, the language of love is threats of third-party violence.]
That's more like it.
[He sets the scotch aside before taking her hand, unsurprised to find the palm hot and a little tacky from where it's been pressed against her glass and the bottle, but mostly just caught up on how easily the whole of his closes over hers. Holding her hand isn't like holding a gun. Her lack of grip would get her laughed out of a boardroom.
It's annoying to crane his neck to look at her, he thinks idly. It was less complicated when she was on the other side of the room, oriented more in front of him, so he could sit and drink and not have to fuss with finding a sideways angle that doesn't make him want to lean his head back and prop it on the bed like some sort of lackadaisical drunk. It's doubly so because she's already moved so she can stare openly at him if she wants, and that's just altogether unbalanced in a way he decides without really thinking much about it that he dislikes.]
Now stop staring at me.
[— he says, and drops her hand to grab her by the middle instead, hauling her over and atop his legs so that she's settled about halfway between his thigh and his knee. It's a bad idea he'll regret in about thirty seconds when her weight starts bearing down on the bone, but that's a problem to be dealt with thirty seconds from now, because at present it actually feels like a phenomenal idea — getting his hands on her, moving her like it's nothing, watching his own rumpled trousers get swallowed up in pink tulle.
He's supposed to take his hands off her, probably, when he's finished. Except that seems like a particularly stupid idea all of a sudden, and for the life of him he can't quite produce an explanation for why.]
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But why does it matter? Why do any of these cozy little juxtapositions she finds under every stone she overturns matter?
They don't, they shouldn't, and she knows that. Unfortunately, there's very little time between her becoming conscious of that and Rufus telling her to stop staring at him before he drops her hand in favor of grabbing her waist and pulling her into his lap. She stiffens in surprise as she's pulled along, the drinks in her system working to mute her reactions, pushing the impulse to pull away far out of her reach, leaving her wide-eyed as he settles her in her new seat, giving her a much more intimate view when she looks up at him. ]
You stop staring first! [ There's a paltry amount of reproach in the way she tries to turn this back around on him. He's so close, and her heart is beating hard enough that Aerith is sure he can tell. Her fingers lift, moving to brush away a few of the strands of hair obscuring part of his face, ardent in the way she searches his face from this angle. He could be a painting or a statue, not that it matters, not that there's any way for her to explain away how her eyes follow the slight bow of his lips, or the twinge of want that stems from the sight. ]
At least all the new company banners will look a lot better. [ That wasn't something she intended to say out loud - it just happened, much like the way she pulls her hand away from his hair only to trace the tip of her finger over his bottom lip. ]
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She's even a little better at keeping her composure than he is, although that's hardly an even playing field when she's actively running her fingers over his face, and he's only holding onto her for the sake of keeping her balanced. If he were raking his fingers through her hair, she'd probably be skittish and uncertain, herself. The fact that every bit of his focus seems to narrow down to the brush of her fingertips where they smooth away the errant locks of his hair is...it's just to be expected. It's not that the touch is unusual, or compelling.
It's funny how he's never really thought about how attractive a prospect it can be to have a girl in his lap. There's really no reason why he should have been dwelling on it anytime before now, but from behind the haze of simmering heat that seems to have overtaken his blood, it seems strange that he's never considered it before when it's as satisfying as this.
He doesn't stop staring, because he's not staring, just looking. Her eyes are so green it's hard to look away, much less to want to look away to begin with.]
Why's that?
[The banners, he means. It's not so much that he actually cares about the answer. Mostly he's just got an intriguing view of her mouth, from this vantage, and the thought of watching it move is enticing.
But then her hand leaves his hair, and her finger wanders down his face and ends up running along the length of his mouth, and he thinks about telling her to stop that too but it's altogether just easier to let his lips part a little and catch her fingertip between his teeth instead, the pressure light and more of a cautionary gesture than a bite.]
i can't tell if this is a thread or a knife fight anymore...
Nothing about this is what she expected it to be. Champagne can smooth the sharper edges of that thorny truth, but Aerith can't deny that she feels better than she ever thought she could, or would, locked in a surreal game of tit-for-tat with Rufus Shinra. While on his lap. And touching his face. ]
You don't get to keep that, you know.
[ The effort Aerith makes to try and sound reproachful borders on valiant, but there's too much softness in the way she speaks for it to land, or even present itself at all as the three fingers she still has free drum gently on his jawline with feigned impatience before she slips free of his hold, all the snide remarks she could have made about not putting things from the slums in his mouth, or not damaging the lab specimens thought of and forgotten, never at risk of being said.
His eyes follow her lips, and she watches him while he does it, wanting him to look but unable to place why - not that having a motive feels as significant as how warm and solid he feels against her.
Even when she's sober, Aerith is the sort who leans into a snap decision, often without planning it through - sometimes to good results. Were she able to spare a thought for the situation, there wouldn't be that many good results that could come from this - keeping close to him, talking instead of seething with righteous rage - from letting him get so close.
Aerith's hands settle on his cheeks as her eyes narrow, giving his face another once over before she shifts closer and tips her chin up, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead before righting herself again, more curious about his reaction than she ought to be. ]
🔪 💋 🔪 💋 🔪 💋
What's strange, he finds silently, is that his reaction is a mixture of aching nostalgia and a ragged burn that he decides to define as annoyance. Gentleness always feels like a trap waiting to spring, a soft assault against his better instincts. No one has ever been gentle with him a day in his life and he doesn't want them to be. A single fractional nod from his father always felt so much better than the stifling confines of his mother's arms.
(The late Mrs. Shinra, he thinks darkly. Company assets, he thinks coldly.)
The hands on her waist shift just slightly, and only after she draws back; with just two fingers, he pushes up the hem of her tuxedo t-shirt far enough to slip them under and runs the tips back and forth in shallow lines against her side. Touching, and yet never out of proportion to what she's already done to him herself. Watching her, like she's watching him.
(He and I are nothing alike, he thinks fiercely.)]
Don't I? I took it.
[There's worlds of significance wrapped up in that quiet remark. Chief among them is this: you can't take something that's already yours to begin with. What about dis-asseting me, she'd insisted, and that's a curious enough prospect that he's willing to play it out and see what comes of it. What if all the trappings of possession, the history, the circumstances, the fucking wedding rings — what if none of it meant anything, what if it all burned to the ground and they grew it back up as a park in its place. What then, if he wasn't holding her by law or by right but because she let him?
She can't count high enough to number all of Shinra's sins, so she married someone who could do it for her. And she doesn't know how to win by taking something nobody gave her.
Lucky she married an expert — one patient enough to bide his time until she susses it out on her own.]
If you see something you want, why aren't you taking it?
bye
And that isn't her problem. There's no version of the world (so far?) where it would be, just like there's no level of the universe where this - his hand on her skin, her heart forgetting how to beat correctly because of it, the slope of his nose etching its way insidiously into her memory - ought to be.
Aerith believes in things like compassion, convinced that there's beauty in everything and everyone. She's spent years figuring out the right angle to look at the Turks tailing her from, learning to see what made them people, what notes to play to get them to slip up and show her themselves. Her version of the reparations Rufus seems so adamant she takes - things she should not want from him as well, not now, not after everything that's happened. Even if she believes she can almost see him, does she have a reason for looking beyond that right now that amounts to something more than she wants to?
Why aren't you taking it?
Because I don't know what it is yet. Aerith thinks immediately, her smile tightening in barely suppressed amusement.
She could laugh at him and tell him she doesn't want anything, that he's hard and cold and she's made out of things that are antithetical to that, maybe even offensive to his brutal practicalities, that it doesn't mean anything to her to share the weight of the words company asset.
Rufus Shinra is someone she could lie to without a problem.
Instead, her arms stretch, draping over his shoulders and the top of the bed behind him as she slowly shifts closer. Her eyes stay on his, the heat simmering through her by way of the champagne flaring, like it's pleased she's finally giving in, and it shows in her face, in the way she looks too long at his mouth again. ]
I don't think this will fix anything at all. [ The words are breathed sweet and conspiratorial against his lips, letting herself hover there for as long as she can until the demand of that keen, damnably exquisite awareness of him eats at the last of her restraint and she's kissing him like she's been waiting a hundred years for the chance. ]
heh heh heh
Of course it doesn't fix anything, because the sort of world where all misfortunes are set to rights with a kiss is the stuff of fantasy and fairy tales, the ones people tell themselves when they're desperate to believe that it doesn't take determination and effort to surmount circumstances so broken. But what it does do is unlock a door, and one that he's been biding his time to see if she would open — the one where she moves first, the one where she throws her gauntlet, because whatever it is that might come of this now, she's as complicit in it as he is.
And that — means something. However nuanced, however hairsplitting, it means something that she kissed him first. That she came to him on her own, without being dragged or coerced or trading compliance for the sake of some benefit in return. It means something because he could have done any of those things without a moment's hesitation, if it suited him, and it suited him to do this instead.]
Of course not —
[— but something ignites when her mouth presses against his, like glowing embers abruptly fanned into a blaze by a timely breath of wind. And he's kissed enough people before to know that kissing isn't supposed to feel this intense, like every cell of his body is saturated with his desire to prolong it, but even the nagging feeling that something about this isn't quite right isn't enough to draw his thoughts away from the compulsion right in front of him.
Now his hands move with more purpose; the one that had been teasing just beneath the hem of her shirt pushes up beneath it with confidence, finding the ridge of her spine and following it upward while the other comes up to rake through her hair. It's a relief that she'd moved herself closer because it's easier to have her sat high on his thighs rather than pinning his legs at the knees; it feels better, too, when the beginnings of arousal start to stir and her weight is well-situated to afford him a little friction from it. He sweeps his tongue along her lower lip, wanting it messy and imperfect and raw because it's liberating to not have to think so much, to let the odd burning in his blood do the dictating for a little while.
When he does drag himself away, it's only long enough to look at her before he pulls her back down and starts the process of not fixing anything all over again.]
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.
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It doesn't matter. What matters is that there's a burn of heat in every place that their skin makes contact, all the way up her spine until his fingers find the ridge of a lace strap running horizontal across her back, and it's far from the easiest thing to manage by touch and one-handed but he pulls at the delicate hooks anyway, manipulating them loose one by one. What matters is that he can coil his fingers around and through the long kinking waves of her hair (had it been tied up, when she'd fled from his rooftop?) and hold it at the back of her neck, because he doesn't know how to hold anything without some level of possession inherent.
What matters is every kiss seems to last until a need for air or to seize the last word takes precedence, and this one is no exception, like they couldn't stay apart if they tried and quite frankly neither one of them is trying.]
Is that so?
[This provocation is starkly different than the others that came before it. Before, he's laid bait and floated implications, figuratively circling her the way a curious Darkstar might just for the sake of taking her measure. This one, by contrast, is a taunt — one he's willing to give because she's asserted herself first, because now it's been made clear that these are escalations in a game and not declarations of war.]
Even if you beg me to?
[It wasn't deliberate, the way the last of the fastenings come loose on her bra at just about the same time he throws that gauntlet of his own, but hell, he's always had a knack for good timing.]
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Aerith's hand fists tighter in the front of Rufus's shirt, an echo of the hold he keeps on her hair as it's gathered against the back of her neck, unwittingly meeting him measure for measure while her mouth claims his again and again between hastily drawn breaths.
The tension in the elastic around her rib loosens under his hand as he unfastens one hook and then the second, the shift of fabric against her breasts enough to stiffen her nipples and make her breath catch against his mouth, her hips angling down, letting him feel the heat between her thighs as she presses flush against the firming outline of his cock, egging them both on. Her tongue drags over the swell of his lower lip as her fingers unfasten his buttons, her smile warming her voice despite barely speaking above a whisper. ]
I bet you beg me before I beg you.
[ What had he called it? Something no one wanted her to have. Before today, did she want her to have this? Could she have even imagined being in a position where something like this had the potential to exist? These are questions she'll ask - along with a million others when she's back in her right mind, but right now, it all pales in comparison to how solid his chest feels against her hands once she undoes his shirt far enough to slip her hands through in search of skin. ]
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[But damn if it doesn't feel good, the way new points of contact keep opening up between them, and new sensations continue to preoccupy his attention one after another. There's at least three layers still between them yet but there's such heat when she grinds down onto him, when she pulls his shirt open free and pushes her hands inside. There's no chance of getting her bra off entirely without separating enough to fuss about with her shirt, but loosening it makes enough space for him to get his hand on her, too, brought back around front to work up between the lace and the swell of her breast, feeling her up in much the same way that she's out to do to him.]
But take your best shot anyway.
[It's not enough, not enough, not enough. Later, when the fog lifts from his thoughts and he can consider it through an unclouded lens, he'll realize how unnatural that urgency really is, how spurred on by the effects of the resort and its questionable beverages. For now, though, there's little to contemplate beyond the way her fingers are skimming across his chest, making him suck his breath a little more sharply as he rolls into the touch and closes his eyes briefly against it.]
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He tells her she'll lose and she laughs, soft and sweet, smothered between kisses and reflected in the playful lightness of her fingertips against his chest as they graze over his nipples in a wordless show of one-upmanship. ]
Could be. [ She won't lose, even if she drives herself to distraction all for the sake of doing the same to him, nevermind that she still hasn't figured out how to win either. Buoyed by the champagne, Aerith pulls back, affording them just enough space for her to pull her shirt off and push his off his shoulders, her eyes lingering on his face. ] But I doubt it.
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It's consolation enough that he gets to look at her when she puts distance between them, though. The absurdity of the novelty t-shirt gives way to the softer elegance of her bared body, and it's hard to regret the exchange. There are no visible scars bitten into her skin where a shirt or top might hide them, and he's not entirely sure why that's even something he looked for to begin with.]
Only one way to find out.
[It's hard not to wonder about her, the real living girl behind all the references to the Ancient that turned up in internal memos and research reports and Tseng's carefully level voice. What makes her blush, makes her writhe, makes her scream? Has anyone ever sought those answers? Does she even know them, herself?
He wants to know, he thinks, and when her hands push his shirt off his shoulders, he catches them by the fingers before they can retreat, clasping each of her hands in his own. Ostensibly it's to keep her from getting any further in undressing him — maybe. Maybe that's what it is. That's what would make the most sense.
(She's pretty, he thinks, unbidden, and files it away as irrelevant.)
Using her hands like they're leverage, he tugs at her now that they're both bare from the waist up, curious to see how much better it feels to be pressed together when it's skin to heated skin.]
Now come back here.
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Aerith's eyes flash, still pleased with herself when she fixes her eyes on his face again, leaning into his face to press their foreheads together, staring him down, playful and challenging in equal measure. ]
You need to learn how to say please!
[ The passive hold she's kept on his hands tightens, and she pulls his arms behind her, leading them around her back until she's satisfied he'll take the lead and hold her like she wants him to. Her knees press against the floor as she straightens herself up against him, lifting herself off of his lap to feel more of his body as she pushes his hair back from his face, nails dragging light against his scalp before she pulls him into another kiss.
Later, she'll look back on this and wonder when her mind became a muddied mess of desire, when she stopped being able to string any thoughts beyond making good on that threat, and how it doesn't feel as surreal as it should, being wanted by Rufus Shinra. ]
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But right now, it's not enough, and the wanting spurs him on to more, more, more. More sounds, more kisses, more contact — more, until he's had his fill, and right now his appetite feels bottomless.]
Oh? No one's managed it yet.
[The taunting comes as easy as ever; what gives him pause, just for an instant, is the way she pulls the same trick on him that he's just used on her, and makes use of their still-clasped hands to guide his arms around her. By all rights, he should be triumphant about it — what could be a better expression of taking something she wants than to physically put his hands where she pleases? — but there's an intimacy to this specific gesture that catches him just a little off-guard. Pleasure is one thing, exploration is another, but this is...tenderness, of a sort, to want him to not just bring her close but to hold her there, and in a way it almost feels...
Should she want that, really? Should she want that from him?
It's only an instant's fleeting thought before it's too late to matter, because he gathers her up just in time for her to get her own hands in his hair, using them like a guide herself to lift his face up and kiss her again. It's attractive, to say the least — it always is, when his partner is willing to take some initiative — and with the little sliver of clarity that remains before his thoughts submerge in desire once more, he makes his hands draw light circles against the plane of her back, keeping them moving so she can't help but feel it, how she's getting what she wanted and chased after and claimed.]
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[ The fingers in his hair press together, catching enough between them to tug while she arches into him, pressing him back against the foot of the bed while his fingers play over her back, keeping her flushed, the persistent heat steeping into every cell practically rocketing through her veins. Letting herself get surrounded like this should be off the table. His hands shouldn't be starting to feel familiar, much less welcome. The seconds of clarity she gets should be devoted to extracting herself from this situation, not finding more ways to egg him on and further entrench herself.
At least she hasn't lied to him. This won't fix anything, but that's not her problem right now.
Right now, Aerith's only concerns involve letting her tongue brush against Rufus's as she waits for the right moment when the hold she's guided him into loosens, allowing her to slip out of his arms, another twist in this game of push-pull. Walking the tricky edge of being pulled along by the need to feel more of him and the keen memory of the noise he made the last time she put space between them, Aerith's off his lap when the moment's right, out of his arms and back on her feet, her hands pushing her hair back past her shoulders as she peers over her shoulder at him. ]
You're going to sit right there and wait. [ Somehow, she still sounds like she's cheerfully delivering good news rather than torturing them both for the fun cause of trying to put him in his place. The corners of her eyes crease in amusement as she steps to the side, ignoring how her body aches in objection while her hands unfasten her skirt's zipper. Once it falls, Aerith steps out of it without breaking her sauntering stride, heading towards the pile of gifts, hands clasping idly behind her back while she looks over the assortment of still packaged toys, searching for something straightforward, with an easy learning curve. ]
If you just begged me now, you'd solve both of our problems, you know?
[ Just because she's making it up as she goes does not mean she's not going to hassle him like she's got it all figured out. Wanting nothing more than to spring her trap on him while trying to satiate the hunger needling through her, Aerith picks up a small vibrator and turns around, idly toying with the waistband of her panties as she closes in on him again. ] Now you're going to have to wait, and not be allowed to do anything until I tell you that you can.
[ She comes to a halt beside where he sits, bringing him nearly eye level with the dampness darkening the front of her panties. ] Well, maybe I can let you take these off, but that's it.
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The burn of irritation pairs deliciously with a sense of odd, approving interest. He doesn't like being played, but somehow he can appreciate that she's decided to try it at all.
Besides, there's one benefit to her getting up. She sheds that ridiculous skirt, which on the balance is a marked improvement. Her legs are as pretty as the rest of her, and she'd bade him wait but she never said anything about whether he was prohibited from looking or not.]
I'm supposed to solve your problems too? Shouldn't you — hh, be begging me, then?
[The hitch in his breath is subtle, but less so than he'd like. He'd written the toys off as pranks and novelties, when he'd been sifting through them before. He hadn't particularly thought —
Well. That's reason enough as any to make a surreptitious grab for the scotch and have another drink, while he still can.
By the time she comes back, he's shifted a little, mostly just from wanting to move his legs a bit while there's still an opportunity before she theoretically comes back to perch over them again; he's moved himself up into a more kneeling position that has him sitting back on his heels, upright enough that it's easier to move a bit when she approaches, and which renders his own arousal not quite so juttingly obvious.
She's wet. He did that.
Fuck.]
I see. So that's it, unless you tell me.
[One hand comes up to grasp her by the outside of her thigh, keeping her stationary and tethered; the other runs up the inside of her opposite leg, up and up and up until he finds the apex and its dampness, and runs two fingers along it.
He's only allowed to take them off? Well, she didn't say how long he had to accomplish it, or how efficient he had to be in going about it.]
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