dent the glass for the shatter to happen
disclaimer: ffvii is not mine.
I.
This is not love.
Not the literal – 'heart stopping', 'breath taking', 'soul stealing' love that dreamy romantics seem adore and gloss in plastic sticks and candy floss. Not the kind which they get off at with wishy-washy sappy love songs and sighs and faraway looks.
He means the love that comes with messy groans and arching backs and sudden twists of the hips that hit the spot just right.
But that's not even called love, is it?
That's lust.
It's a battle. It's their battle of guttural laughter and raking nails that promise marks in the morning. Bruises and teeth marks often added just for kicks, in places where no one sees, unless they squint. Sweat glistens and friction glides. Crimson blends into gold, some sort of fucked up rainbow with sensations pounding into an amalgamation. He doesn't fucking know where one person ends and the other begins.
Her grip tightens on him, and he can't stop saying her name. It's like rope, a noose around his neck, a noose on a hot air balloon, she only has to say his name, and she cuts every balloons and lets them fly into the sky, higher and higher and—
"Fuck."
Something's shifted between them, a dynamic that he's never been aware of, not consciously, until today.
Now he's not so sure who's in control, but there's fun in that mystery. He can see it in his mind's eye, challenging and tempting; tugs of war, tracts of land. Something hot, something wet, something tight, and something inexplicably binding about it.
And he's still drawing circles on her skin, on her thigh, her breath hitching and her brown eyes fluttering shut.
Thoughts fleetingly flit by as he observes her, eyes hazy with desire, and not one of his thoughts are meant sincerely.
Elena, I love you.
He'd love to say it: those four words. He'd savour its taste on his mouth, and on her face, spiteful, malicious. Her face would turn that exact shade of red that suited her so prettily, before being replaced by a hollow white. He barely has to think about it, she'd flinch and mutter something like don't be stupid, you don't mean that.
And he wouldn't. But there's always a chance that she might believe him.
He knows her so much better than she thinks he does, and much more than she likes.
He knows how to make her smile and make her blush. He knows how to taunt her and how to flirt with her. And he knows exactly how to get under her skin and make her squirm. For him.
While she is demure in the presence of others, dolled up in pouted lips and a flush of red; she is different here. Come dimmed lights and a curtain call of the fallen sun, and she is confident and bold and brash, waist undulating against his.
He doesn't know which version of this woman is best.
Perhaps he doesn't love her, but he certainly likes her.
This fuck toy of his.
II.
This is how it ends, always, their unbroken pattern.
Not with a scream and gasps and shudders.
But a slam of the door.
As if it never happened.
Even though it happens again and again and again.
III.
Her body may be his, but her heart isn't.
Well, there's a method to remedy that, and Reno fully intends to capture Elena, and make her heart beat for him.