Captivation

"Well, what's the difference between Edibility and Inedibility?"

Ever since a certain disaster-prone childhood, Reeve Tuesti—in Yuffie's words: Tuesticles (Which wasn't a word, he didn't think…)—was dramatically afraid of tests. Call them what you would, if it had to do with questioning and answering, or fixing a blemish/dilemma in front of one or more, he broke out in a most ungodly sweat and the lowest corner of his left eye would twitch randomly and spasmodically every other span of 3.5 seconds. The same thing managed to happen during interrogations, which were sort of the same thing. He seemed to work fine alone, but in his direct secretary's words: it was a strong surging of male pride, and the sooner he dealt with it, public wouldn't be his problem.

Naturally, he disagreed.

Either it was from the persistent and constant presence of the ever obnoxious Yuffie, or because he feared not being able to answer a question in the utmost dignity. Nevertheless, both he and Yuffie had agreed; it was not male pride. Her opinion was officially ruined when she'd had a little coffee to coffee chat with his darling secretary Tina, and had come back to his office jutting one pointy index finger practically up his nose. With—which he was almost sure—no intentions of giving him a lobotomy.

But still, the motion had been there, and she stood with legs parted in a dramatic replica of a Colonel, while her upper lip curled in either what was a very nasty smile, or the result of ordering the chocolate macchiato with twice the extra foam. (This was probably the latter, knowing her…)

He'd grimaced; the Macchiato's were always the worst in that particular shop. And then before he'd noticed what she was really pointing out, he'd given her a graceful smile and said: "Oh…you should've bought a latte…"

That had probably been the worst thing he'd said all that evening, because in a ball of screaming, beeping fury—amidst the very colorful curse-words flying like flocks of birds from her mouth—she'd tackled him to the ground and stuck a similar looking report practically in his mouth. For which nobody could blame him, because who wouldn't have their mouth open in complete and utter awe when the smallest girl managed to tackle a full grown man to the floor and utter at the least fifty full curse words in the duration of four seconds? What really got him though, was the report lying dejected and drool worthy on the carpet, his signature—and her, now regretfully—forged signature on the other space. She'd grinned when his cheeks forced upon him the look of certain feared doom. The space between his shoulders began moistening with a warm sticky sweat. His left eye twitched uncontrollably. Also, which he'd never noticed before, his lips were inexcusably close to hers, and he figured, if she didn't shut up soon, then, well, he'd be forced to perform the unforgivable.

Of course all traces of his cloudy previous thoughts vanished when she'd punched his cheek with an enraged screech.

"You used my material without my permission, and had your friggin' Kitty-Cat-Action-Figure forge my signature!"

Really though, he'd expected a bit more anger, but all he'd received was a defeated sigh of disappointment, and a slight shove on the side of his head as she clambered up, teetering clumsily on one foot. When she'd sullenly picked the report up and smoothed it on the surface of his desk, he'd almost apologized. But of course, she'd stomped on his chest, two, and three…no, five, times, and before he'd been able to gain his breath back, she'd ran from the room, a blur of blue and white in tow. In his mangled and hazy state, he hadn't been able to identify exactly what she'd been carrying, but now, one week later, he knew.

The Saturday, his only day off, had started at five, mostly from the unjustifiably steamy yet startling dreams of his closest coworker which he had to admit…were just that; steamy. He'd taken an anti-steamy shower, which probably would've been more affective had he not switched the settings from cold to hot in a matter of five seconds. Because after Yuffie's own version of a psychosomatic lobotomy, his shoulders and face…not to mention his poor abused abdominal muscles, hurt like a ninja had flew into his room and beat the living shit out of him.

Now while certain fragments of this were true, the whole event wasn't entirely possible, because as was fact, human feces did not have any intelligent living cells that he knew of… There was also the reality that he hadn't messed his pants since the celebratory drunken night of his twenty-first birthday. Something he still carried shame about.

Otherwise, the morning was evidently sleepless, and he spent the remainder attempting to locate the signal of Cait Sith, who had mysteriously gone missing. He'd had an inkling that it had to do with the rather—in his opinion, not hers (Though he really didn't know hers)—fortunate captive of said hot and sticky dreams, but he had been wrong before. In this case, he shamelessly prayed to every god he knew of, that he was in the wrong. But, then again, he had been right on many various occasions, and that was what he feared the most.

Not to mention the reaction he would have if his dreams would come true. (Still, in his experience, that had never happened before, so it wasn't likely it was about to happen.)

He managed to get through the murky morning hours, saying on more than one occasion: "It was just a dream…just a dream, Reeve… It's just a botheration in the physiological pattern of my brain…."

In which his lower Sergeant, Reno would reply with "Botheration, Yuffie's ass…" But Reno wasn't there, so he had no problem with it. (Or her ass…)

It, he liked to call the future situation, happened around twelve noon, closer to the one than the twelve, actually. He had retired to his bachelor-esque living room, settled with much relaxed enthusiasm on the couch with a rum soaked strawberry smoothie, and the latest thrilling issue of 'Machinery Monthly'. After the first page--which was filled with the much overstated and monotonous quotes of geniuses' everywhere—a loud thump shattered his kitchen window.

He knew it had been the kitchen window because his favorite cup had clattered to the cheaply made linoleum with a thump, and the other reason was because he saw a dark coffee brown nose roll to the entrance to the living room. He had gasped theatrically.

That nose had been the part to his favorite cup, not to mention the most recognizable element of it. His favorite cup had actually been a gift from Tseng and Elena, in which was a head with a largely misshapen nose and pursed lips that made a very similar resemblance to Rude, with the exception of course that Rude's head and the cups head were vastly differently shaped. They said it was an extremely downsized version of one of the 'Easter Island' heads, though he had no idea what these heads or these 'Easter Islands' were. The only thing he knew was that they were located somewhere close to Wutai, and held giant statues that resembled a partial Rude. He was a nerd, not a geologist.

However, gods he had loved that cup. If it had been breathing, it might've come close to a child. But the only thing in his life that came relatively close a child would be his friendly Cait Sith. Who, upon further scrutiny, was lying in every corner of his kitchen, arms, wires, and whiskers askew as if he'd been in a hurricane of disaster. The wires were scrupulously braided, the arms disconnected, all finger dissected save for the middle one. His face once fluffy had been skinned and repainted a grotesque shade of gray, while a rather large carving knife stood erect in the middle of the sparking circuit-board of his stomach.

Superior wording would amount to: Or a hurricane of Yuffie.

He'd sighed and took the whole evening unbraiding, un-painting, and reattaching, while taking breaks and looking solemnly at the broken remains of his once magnificent cup.

Once Cait Sith was put together however, he'd noticed one thing missing. Cait's tongue was apparently and rather savagely ripped out.

Now his tongue had been tricky, and Reeve had eventually decided with a silicone surface with hundreds of microscopic Nano machines thriving inside. It was the thing that made independent speech functional, and it had taken him months just to draw the blueprint. He didn't even want to mention how long it took to build.

So, when he'd seen the revulsion that the remaining scraps of tongue contained, he'd sucked in a desperate breath, and upon the loud exhale, he'd lost it—Both the calm patience that one often had to save when it came to Yuffie, and the rather desperate breath of anger that blew the patience out the window, with no promise to return. He'd donned his shoes and his ridiculously long jacket—which had long seemed to Vincent like a mild case of wannabe plagiarism—and had called a taxi to Tifa's bar.

Of course Yuffie wasn't there, in fact, she'd been there to leave a message with Cloud, saying that she was on the run from a signature forging bastard/pervert who she just knew had hot and humid dreams of her every other night. (Reeve was both mystified and ashamed at her assumption, which was undeniably true…)

The note was written on the shaggy remains of Cait Sith's blueprints, and on the bottom in royally scrawled cursive, was Yuffie Kisaragi's true signature.

Cloud reported monotonously that he had taken it and shoved it unceremoniously in his leather pants, not really thinking about Reeve and Yuffie's obviously sexually and romantically deprived predicament, because he knew they loved each other—In which Reeve protested was not the case at all, but Cloud always had a hard time listening.

And instead of Yuffie occupying his thoughts, his mind had been on the one and only Rude and Reno, and wondered where the Electro Mag-Rod came into to all of it. (This, Reeve thought, was disturbing and so unlike Cloud, he wondered where his brain went after Tifa had left with Vincent.)

But, the hunt for Yuffie was still on, and two hours came and left with no hint to her whereabouts. So, Reeve deciding that she couldn't just skip out on her ninja duties at the WRO on Monday, gave up until he'd approach her on the next working day and entered a bar.

The bar was a nice one, located on the end of fifth, and beginning of seventh—though where the sixth was, nobody knew—and the bartender was someone Reeve knew and trusted. He was a large man, tanned and crisped by the sun to a T, his accent was that of some islander, and on Fridays he liked to wobble around the room shirtless and only clothed in a light yellow grass skirt. His name was incomprehensible, so Reeve just called him "Desht"

Anyway, besides that, the place was nice, and Reeve liked it. He actually often came when the situation was about Yuffie, describing her to 'Desht' with as much detail as he could, often complimenting her, and other times venting his lack of patience with his lead espionage assassin.

Desht, like a man; stood there and had Reeve knock down glass after glass of whiskey until his rant became that of a blitzed slur. Then he usually called a cab, demanded an unusually high bill from Reeve, and then with a friendly apologetic pat on the back, closed the door in his face, stating: "Sawry Mate, 'tis just business, y'know…"

But this night, Reeve had no intention of getting blitzed. The only intention he had was to slump dejectedly in the corner usually reserved for tall, dark and brooding fellows who usually went by the name of 'Valentine', and mourn the loss of his beloved Cait Sith's tongue.

This is where the story actually manages to come into play.

So Reeve being a girly--guy on impractical occasions such as the one he was caught in, ordered a bright pink contraption which was extra dry, and managed to slither down his throat like a liquid desert. He sat there for god knew how long, and then was jolted out of his suicidal thoughts by a tyrannical drunken voice. The voice was loud and shrill, and it was so plastered, he waved it off as some drunken hooker who had decided to stumble in. (He jokingly thought that her insistent screaming might have to do with Reno, since, well…it was Reno after all…)

Then he distinctly heard the words "Reeve, that ass, bastard with goatee, abs, long jacket," and "tongue in my mouth…"

Instantly brought from the haze in which his martini had put him, he sought out the shortest of shortest and received the image of a bright red Yuffie surrounded by several shot glasses and a pleased Desht holding out an incredibly long receipt. Reeve stopped, wondered what would happen if he let her on the loose and left her in Desht's bar alone, and then berated himself, humbly stepping forward.

His neck began to sweat, his eyes twitched in uncontrollable spasms, and oddly this time, his heart hurt worse than his stomach had when she'd kicked him with those damn shoes of hers. He was confused, but decided that it wasn't the time to be worrying about improper bodily functions.

In a rush, he threw his wallet—the cash one, because he had two—on the counter, gave the lady waitress and Desht a wolfish smile, and grabbed Yuffie's wrist, winking at her with such flirtatious absurdity that she almost passed out on the spot.

They managed to stumble home, and he unlocked the door with three fingers, the other seven occupied with holding her up on his back. She'd warbled in a drunken tirade for the whole trip, complaining about the bad taste and how that nasty pink thing had tasted like rubber and some kind of weird slime that you used on really bad scratches. He had no memory of the pink thing tasting like rubber, actually, but then again, drunks tasted things differently, and he thought maybe, just maybe, she'd had too much for one tongue to take.

"Speaking of tongues…" he quoted vehemently, after tossing her on the couch along with a blue fuzzy blanket, and one pillow, and then tossing himself alongside her, "Where's Cait's tongue?"

She laughed in a high pitched soprano tune—which he reminded himself to never let her sing at work, lest everyone go deaf—and then she kicked her feet into the air before settling her head on his lap, sticking her tongue out at him.

"Oh, Mister Tuesticles, if only you,"—which actually sounded more like Yaw-uh—"knew…"

She giggled once more, nodding her head up and down. He mentally begged for a cold shower. A kick to the groin, a bloody nose, anything but Yuffie and her head moving on his lap. He was a man. He had a mind. He had a sex drive, and in the middle of two toned thighs, he most definitely had a penis. So evidently, having a cute, flexible girl nodding her head on his lap was eventually going to produce what was either a horrifying or delightful reaction. He just knew that it wouldn't be the latter.

So he looked down at her, smiled and imagined the coffee brown head of his favorite cup in place of her own, which made him laugh and made her get up off his lap, a concerned look on her face. Slowly, she touched the tip of his goatee, which really for him wasn't any better than lying on his lap in the face of a growing erection. Her lips pursed, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck, arching her back. She gained a look of guilt, and for second he mistook it for anger, before she hung her head, obviously ashamed of whatever sin she had committed.

"I…ate it…" she sniffled before letting loose a great and terrible animalistic wail, "I ate Cait Sith's tongue!" The tears rolled down her face, her pouty lips trembled like a kid who was refused her daily amount of sugar, her legs were now around his waist and her eyes were wet and large. He almost let out a motherly 'awe' and instead patted her back awkwardly, while still attempting to remain stern while she continued sniffling and biting out incoherent sentences. He did understand, however, when she plastered her sweaty forehead to his own and hugged him unyieldingly, her long legs tightening their hold around him, that she was sorry.

They sat there for a moment, her stomach still digesting the ripped remains of Cait's tongue, and Reeve digesting the fact that he had the sole object of his disturbingly hot and sweaty dreams wrapped around his waist like a Christmas ornament. Then, she burped quietly and buried her head dramatically into the crook of his shoulder. Luckily, it was only his back that was sweaty.

"It…mmmf…Tasted gross…" she leaned back, narrowing her eyes at him, "Cait Sith's tongue was gross and nasty Reeve! What's up with that!?"

(Which actually sounded more like: 'Thaw-ut!?')

Five minutes later, her sniffling stopped, and he being too lazy to carry her anywhere, laid her carefully on the couch as she snored quietly. He stood up, observing her tiny body stretched out like a cat, and sat down next to her, thinking as he tried to fall asleep in a state of wrecked manly urge, that in a week or so, he should get a cat and a frog and see who survived the longest. Surely the cat.

The next morning, he woke in a sort of daze, feeling that while he had obviously fallen asleep on the couch, there was still something wrong with the whole occasion. When the slender bare arm of none other than Yuffie slapped against his stomach, he knew that either this was the start of the best dream he'd ever had, or that this was the beginning of a terrible mistake. Luckily for him, it was neither, as Yuffie turned over onto his chest, while gloriously unaware of his morning issue, her lips in a smile.

She laughed, "I was drunk, wasn't I? I ate Cait Sith's tongue…and then I commanded you to take me home, which you didn't did you? And then I woke up on a totally huge and awesome couch with my boss and a tiny hangover…" there was another silent pause as he tried to explain,

"I only fell asleep…I didn't do a thing, and yes, by damned Yuffie, you ate my robots tongue! What the hell?"

She giggled while he tried to sort out the morning haze, it was only Sunday after all, and this was a late morning which he didn't have to be in until two… Yuffie was on his chest, her knee in-between his legs, and he hadn't been able to sleep a wink until at least five. He was confused, in fact, he was more than confused.

He was terrified of what she'd do next, fearing the absolute worst. But, while he braced himself for the beating of his life, she'd sat upright her legs on either side of him as her eyes glinted with that knowing smirk.

He thought dreading, 'oh no…gods no…' And she'd laughed at his obvious embarrassment.

"Did you sleep well, Reevie-poo?"

He couldn't take it. This was all too much for a simple guy like him. His robot had been mangled, she'd eaten Cait's tongue, Cloud had possibly turned gay, and he was having hot dreams about Yuffie of all people. She was sitting on his lap, obviously still in a slight state of drunkenness, and he was rapidly growing a certain issue.

So, of course like any normal human being—man—Reeve snapped, once and for all, his lip curling back in a comical snarl and his hands clawing at her hips in a viselike grip. The blanket slithered to the ground like a blue snake, but he paid it no heed. Instead he glared directly into her eyes with his own. He was sweating, his heart was pounding and he was sure that something else besides his eyes was twitching.

"No Yuffie," he ground out in a raspy voice, "For your information I did not sleep well." He took a deep breath as she calmly sat flush against his hips, her tongue snaking out before slipping right back where it came from.

"However, any sane man that tries to sleep on a couch with you is an idiot. Especially when you keep groaning and breathing, and doing that weird hip thing," which with that he jilted his leg a bit, earning a gasp from her, "And when you're just being you being asleep, it's impossible for any man of normalcy to not grow an extra bone when being in the same vicinity as you…"

With this he gasped; face flushing hotly as he could practically feel the sweat pouring down his back. He closed his eyes, expecting the worst and instead when he opened them, she was even closer, her lips hovering above his nose. She giggled once before kissing him softly, and before he could even say a word, she'd already pulled the blanket up and over them with one jerk of her arm.

"Guess I should take care of that shouldn't I?"

Not really aware of what she was saying, he'd nodded his approval, before letting out a squeaky high pitched ""What!?" Which actually came out as "Whu-awt?"

She'd nodded her head gravely as he weakly pointed out, "You ate Cait Sith's tongue…" which really didn't have anything to do with it, but as he saw it, her behavior frightened him.

Her head tilted before a devious toothy grin spread across her cheeks, her hands neatly spread across his almost sweaty chest.

"So…speaking of tongues…"

And then, she pulled the blanket over the both of their heads.

Meanwhile five hours later at the office:

Tina stomped into her cubicle with Reeve's Sunday latte. She'd paged him, she'd called him, and she'd done everything possible to contact him. Taking a sip, she sat down in the swiveling chair and reached for a pen for the mound of paperwork. What was that man doing? Images came to mind, but she shook them off with a low chuckle. He would never… Still! She'd even taken the time to go to his apartment, but the door had been locked.

And for some odd reason, the shades had been closed…

End.

A/N

Yes, this is partially to apologize for the complete catastrophe that was "The Affair" and of course to sate my lust for Reeve and Yuffie, which I think there is still a lack of on this site, which we must fix right away! I wanted to do something with Reeve going crazy and Yuffie getting drunk and being the sole reason for Reeve going insane.

He knows he loves her.

Anyway, yes, humor and romance for those who asked. Tina, if you wonder, is my character (Actually... *Laugh* that's my name, jellybeans...) So yes, imagine a short brunette who's a secretary for a crazy man half her age, who dresses in pencil skirts, gets angry easily, and is a coffee addict. Me.

I couldn't resist, it needed to be done.

So, I will write another Reeve/Yuffie. It may be Humor, it may be Angst.

Until then,

~TMoh